OLIVER  OLDBOY 


G-EOKGE  BAILEY 

21  Salt  of 
NEW  YORK  MERCANTILE  LIFE 


BY 

OLIVER  OLDBOY 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

1880 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1880,  by 

HAKTER  &  BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


GEORGE  BAILEY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  What's  i'  the  air  ? 

Some  subtle  spirit  runs  through  all  my  veins. 
Hope  seems  to  ride  this  morning  on  the  wind, 
And  joy  outshines  the  sun." — PROCTER. 

IT  was  a  raw  and  gusty  evening  toward  the  end  of  March, 
18 — .  The  day  had  been  cold,  dreary,  and  sunless;  great 
masses  of  leaden  clouds  had  chased  each  other  through  the 
atmosphere ;  and  the  half-frozen  snow  of  a  late  winter  lay 
soiled  on  the  streets  and  sidewalks  of  the  city  of  New 
York.  To  the  person  whose  business  called  him  out-of- 
doors  everything  wore  an  aspect  of  indescribable  gloom 
and  discomfort. 

At  this  period  there  existed  in  the  central  part  of  the  city 
many  rows  of  neat  two -story  houses  with  slanting  roofs 
and  dormer-windows,  occupied  by  well-to-do  citizens  in  the 
middle  rank  of  life.  Toward  one  of  these  houses  a  young 
man  might  have  been  seen  walking  with  a  quick,  elastic 
step,  his  whole  frame  vibrating  with  perfect  health,  and  his 
eye  gleaming  with  hope  and  happiness.  He  was  a  little 
above  the  middle  height,  with  great  breadth  of  shoulder 
and  depth  of  chest.  His  head  was  large,  well  set,  and  cov- 
ered with  masses  of  thick,  dark  hair.  lie  strode  along  with 
the  step  of  a  young  Titan,  almost  bounding  in  his  eagerness 
to  reach  his  home.  He  spurned  the  slush  of  the  sidewalk, 
and  he  scorned  the  biting  blast  of  the  March  wind. 


17821 82 


4  GEOKGE   BAILEY. 

"  Oh  Kate,"  said  he,  to  the  middle-aged  domestic,  who 
had  answered  his  ring  at  the  door-bell, "  I  am  almost  in- 
clined to  kiss  you,  I  feel  so  happy." 

"  Oh  fie,  Mr.  George !  you  ought  to  he  ashamed  of  your- 
self !"  replied  the  servant,  with  a  smile  which  showed  that 
she  would  not  have  been  much  hurt  had  he  followed  his 
inclinations. 

"  Where's  mother — down-stairs  or  up  ?" 

"  She's  up-stairs  sewin'  an'  rnendin',  as  usual." 

The  young  man,  having  laid  aside  his  overcoat  and  hat, 
ran  up  the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  gave  an  impatient 
knock  at  the  door,  and,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  rushed 
into  the  room,  seized  his  mother's  head  in  both  his  hands, 
and  showered  a  dozen  kisses  on  her  forehead  and  cheeks. 

"  Mother,  congratulate  me !  mother,  I'm  in  luck !  No 
more  poverty,  no  more  struggling !" 

"  Why,  George,  what's  the  matter  ?  Is  the  boy  crazy  ? 
There,  there,  that  will  do.  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  Mother,  congratulate  me ;  I  almost  ran  home  to  tell 
you  the  good  news.  To-day  I  was  promoted  to  be  head- 
clerk,  at  a  salary  of  three  thousand  dollars  a  year,  in  the 
house  of  Van  Hess  <fe  Co.  The  old  gentleman  did  it  all. 
I  am  to  be  made  junior  partner  at  the  end  of  the  year ; 
and  —  and  he  knows  all  about  my  feelings  toward  Grace, 
and  he  makes  no  objection." 

"  My  son,  we  ought  to  thank  our  heavenly  Father,  who 
has  been  so  good  to  the  widow  and  orphan." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  mother,  I  thank  God  always.  But  isn't 
it  magnificent !  When  father  died  four  years  ago  in  debt, 
I  was  obliged  to  abandon  my  medical  studies  without  a 
diploma,  and  most  reluctantly  enter  a  wholesale  grocery 
store,  iu  a  subordinate  position ;  and  here  I  am  on  a  fair 
way  of  becoming  a  merchant  prince.  After  all,  it  is  better 
than  the  life  my  poor  father  led,  out  late  and  early,  curing 
the  poor  without  profit,  and  leaving  his  wife  and  child  to 
suffer  for  his  easy  good-nature." 

"Hush,  my  dear!  not  one  syllable  against  your  good 
father.  He  was  the  best  man  I  ever  saw ;  and  even  you, 
George,  are  hardly  as  good  as  he." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  5 

"  Now,  mother  mine,  that's  not  exactly  fair  of  you.  You 
know  that  no  son  ever  loved  and  respected  a  father  more 
than  I  did  mine ;  but  that  is  no  reason  why  he  should  have 
permitted  hypocrites  and  impostors  to  ruin  him,  or  why  I 
should  not  condemn  what  I  think  was  unwise.  Every  year 
since  his  death  we  have  been  pinched  for  money,  and  you 
have  not  been  in  the  country  for  five  years.  But  now, 
now,  mother,  during  my  holidays  we  shall  go  together  to 
the  mountains  and  the  sea.  The  roses  will  come  back  to 
your  cheeks,  mother  mine ;  and,  do  you  know,  you  are  a  very 
good-looking  young  woman  of  forty,  and  who  knows — " 

"  Hush,  hush,  you  silly  boy  !" 

It  was  a  study  to  watch  these  two.  The  tears  of  pride 
and  joy  welled  in  the  mother's  eyes  as  she  gazed  at  her 
strong,  frank,  and  manly  son,  so  like  the  husband  she  had 
lost ;  and  the  young  man's  deep  blue  eye  was  tender  as  he 
scanned  the  faded  beauty  of  the  delicate  and  fragile  wom- 
an who  had  borne  him.  There  was  an  indefinable  expres- 
sion of  exquisite  feeling  in  his  face,  such  as  good  sons  have 
for  their  mothers  when  they  are  still  young  and  beautiful. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door-bell ;  and  Kate  announced 
that  Mr.  Myron  Finch  desired  to  see  Mr.  George  Bailey  for 
a  few  minutes.  Mrs.  Bailey  asked  her  son  who  Mr.  Myron 
Finch  was ;  for  she  had  never  heard  his  name  before. 

"  Oh,  he's  a  sort  of  friend  of  mine.  I  have  a  bowing  ac- 
quaintance with  him.  We  used  to  meet  in  the  dissecting- 
room  when  I  was  studying  medicine." 

"  Mr.  Finch,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  What  can  I  do  for 
you  ?"  were  the  words  with  which  honest  George  Bailey 
accosted  Myron  Finch  as  he  shook  him  cordially  by  the 
hand. 

"  Mr.  Bailey,  I  have  called  to  see  you  in  relation  to  get- 
ting employment  in  some  mercantile  house.  As  you  are 
already  aware,  I  have  been  studying  medicine  and  divinity, 
but  to  little  purpose.  I  have  pursued  many  callings  since 
I  came  to  New  York,  but  have  not  succeeded  in  any.  To- 
day I  heard,  by  the  merest  accident,  that  there  had  been  a 
general  promotion  in  the  house  of  Van  Hess  &  Co.,  and 
that  you  (whom  I  cordially  and  sincerely  congratulate  on 


G  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

your  good  fortune)  have  been  made  head -clerk.  This 
leaves  a  vacancy  for  which  I  would  like  to  apply ;  and 
with  your  good  word  in  my  behalf,  I  think  I  might  ob- 
tain it." 

George  Bailey  *vas  naturally  a  kind-hearted  young  man, 
and  this  evening,  in  particular,  he  felt  unusually  happy. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  replied  Bailey,  "  I  shall  do  everything 
in  my  power  to  secure  you  the  vacancy." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Bailey ;  I  hope  I  shall  merit  your  good 
opinion." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Bailey  entered  the  parlor  on  pre- 
tence of  looking  for  something,  but  in  reality  to  see  what 
manner  of  man  Myron  Finch  was.  And  what  did  she  sec  ? 
A  young  man  somewhat  below  the  middle  height,  with  ex- 
ceedingly light  eyes,  light  hair,  light  eyebrows  and  light 
eyelashes.  Were  it  not  for  this  extreme  light  color,  he 
might  be  called  good-looking.  His  features  were  certainly 
regular.  But  there  was  a  furtive  restlessness  in  his  pale 
blue  eye  which  to  the  close  observer  imparted  to  his  face  a 
sinister  expression. 

Mr.  Finch  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  Bailey,  and,  after  the 
usual  salutations,  the  conversation  was  resumed  by  the 
latter. 

"  Suppose,  then,  Mr.  Bailey,  that  I  call  at  the  store  to- 
morrow ;  for  I  am  very  anxious  to  obtain  permanent  em- 
ployment." 

"Call  to-morrow  morning  at  10  o'clock,  and  I  shall  take 
great  pleasure  in  introducing  you  to  Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess, 
the  head  of  the  firm,  one  of  the  kindest  and  gentlest  of 
men." 

In  the  conversation  that  followed  George  Bailey  did  near- 
ly all  the  talking,  and  Myron  Finch  played  the  part  of  an 
attentive  and  respectful  listener.  George,  in  his  present  state 
of  exaltation,  excited  by  his  promotion  and  his  prospects, 
told  his  new  friend  a  great  deal  more  than  was  necessary ; 
speaking  of  his  father's  debts,  his  own  struggles,  and  his 
mother's  patience.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  state  that 
all  the  debts  were  paid  except  one  of  $1500  to  Mr.  Wilde, 
of  the  firm  of  Warrenton,  Wilde  <fe  Co.  Several  times  his 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  7 

mother  endeavored  to  catch  his  eve,  but  in  vain.  George 
rattled  on.  Bold,  fearless,  frank,  and  impulsive,  and  talking 
under  the  stimulus  of  success,  and  the  gratification  of  using 
that  success  to  help  a  former  fellow-student,  he  spoke  of 
private  affairs  which  he  had  no  right  to  mention  to  any 
one  save  his  mother. 

Myron  Finch  was  cautiously  measuring  his  man,  and  treas- 
uring up  every  sentence  that  he  uttered.  Mrs.  Bailey  kept 
her  gaze  fastened  on  Mr.  Finch  with  an  air  of  suspicious 
•watchfulness,  as  is  the  habit  of  all  mothers,  feline,  canine, 
or  human,  when  they  instinctively  feel  that  their  offspring 
are  in  danger.  Finch  felt  the  mother's  eye  penetrating 
through  and  through  him,  and  he  became,  under  her  glance, 
restless  and  uneasy.  Mrs.  Bailey's  pale  face  became  flushed, 
and  her  blue  eye  brilliant,  as  her  maternal  instinct  became 
aroused. 

With  George's  repeated  promise  that  he  would  do  all  in 
his  power  to  help  him  to  obtain  the  vacancy  in  the  house 
of  Jacob  Van  Hess  &  Co.,  Myron  Finch  took  his  leave,  ob- 
sequiously polite  to  the  mother,  and  profuse  in  his  expres- 
sions of  thanks  to  the  son.  When  he  had  left  the  house, 
Mrs.  Bailey,  in  a  very  excited  tone,  exclaimed, 

"  George,  George,  why  did  you  talk  of  our  affairs  to  that 
young  man  ?  That  man  is  a  snake,  and  I  know  it — I  feel 
it !  Don't  trust  him,  my  son.  Have  nothing  to  do  with 
him.  Take  my  advice,  and  do  not  urge  his  appointment  to 
the  vacancy.  If  you  do,  you  will  be  sorry  for  it.  WThile 
you  were  talking  I  watched  him.  George,  he  is  a  snake — 
a  snake — a  snake  !" 

"  Why,  mother,  this  is  really  unlike  you.  I  have  never 
before  seen  you  so  excited.  I  have  never  heard  you  speak 
ill  of  any  human  being  before  to  -  night — not  even  of  the 
people  who  robbed  and  plundered  my  poor  father.  Surely 
Mr.  Finch  did  not  say  or  do  anything  to  cause  you  to  speak 
so  unkindly  of  him." 

"I  warn  you,  my  son;  you  must  drop  this  man.  I  am 
not  mistaken.  I  do  not  reason  with  my  intellect;  I  reason 
with  my  mother's  heart,  and  that  heart  makes  me  feel  him 
a  venomous,  poisonous  snake." 


8  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Mother,"  said  the  son,  with  a  measured  dignity  of  speech 
and  manner,  "  tny  word  has  been  given,  and  I  cannot  go  back 
on  my  word.  I  am  your  only  child — all  that  is  left  you — 
and  you  dream  dreams  and  see  visions.  Your  great  love 
for  me  causes  you  to  fancy  danger  where  no  danger  exists. 
Come,  cheer  up,  mother;  here's  a  kiss  for  you,  and  another, 
and  another.  Why,  mother,  the  excitement  has  brought 
back  the  roses  to  your  cheek.  Good-bye !  I'm  off  to  see 
Grace  Van  Hess ;"  and  away  strode  the  young  man,  hope- 
ful, gallant,  affectionate,  and  overflowing  with  good-will  to- 
ward all  mankind. 

What  sixth  sense  is  this  maternal  instinct?  Is  it  not 
some  higher  attribute  given  to  good  mothers,  as  to  good 
angels,  to  warn  them  of  the  approach  of  danger  ? 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  How  silver  sweet  sound  lovers'  tongues  by  night, 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears." — SHAKSPEARE. 

THE  house  of  Jacob  Van  Hess,  to  which  George  Bailey 
was  now  hastening  with  rapid  strides,  was  one  of  the  finest 
and  most  costly  in  the  city.  All  that  wealth  could  pur- 
chase in  the  way  of  painting,  of  statuary,  and  of  bric-a-brac, 
rare,  dainty,  and  delicate,  were  placed  here  and  there  in 
seemingly  careless  profusion ;  and  yet  there  was  unmistak- 
able taste  in  all  the  arrangements.  Indeed,  it  would  have 
been  very  difficult  for  the  most  fastidious  artist  in  form 
and  color  to  have  changed  the  position  of  a  figure,  or  alter- 
ed the  shade  of  a  single  article  of  furniture,  without  detri- 
ment to  the  effect  of  the  whole.  Everywhere  the  eye  fell 
on  evidence  of  wealth  without  gaudiness  or  ostentation. 
The  ceilings  were  lofty,  the  halls  were  wide,  and  the  mate- 
rials were  of  the  best.  Many  of  the  paintings  were  bv  the 
old  masters,  and  had  been  purchased  by  Mr.  Van  Hess  dur- 
ing his  last  trip  to  Europe. 

Jacob  Van  Hess  had  risen  from  a  humble  position  to  be 
one  of  the  great  merchant-princes  of  a  metropolitan  city. 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  9 

His  education  was  limited,  his  views  narrow  and  circum- 
scribed, and  his  opinions  formed  by  his  newspaper  and  his 
minister.  His  business,  his  politics,  and  his  religion  en- 
grossed his  time  and  attention.  In  his  mercantile  pursuits, 
in  which  he  relied  on  his  own  sagacity,  he  was  clear,  sim- 
ple, and  direct,  and  governed  by  a  strong  sense  of  justice ; 
but  in  other  matters  he  was  intensely  prejudiced  and  big- 
oted. His  panacea  for  all  the  evils  of  society  was  Total 
Abstinence,  based  upon  Methodism.  Two  charities  were  al- 
most entirely  supported  by  his  means ;  and  it  is  needless  to 
say  that  both  belonged  to  his  creed  and  accorded  with  his 
views  on  temperance.  He  did  not  believe  in  the  higher  ed- 
ucation of  the  common  people,  nor  in  universal  suffrage. 
The  former  he  considered  the  parent  of  discontent,  and  the 
latter  of  license  to  do  evil.  Yet,  withal,  he  was  kind-heart- 
ed and  generous,  ready  to  relieve  the  afflicted,  and  sympa- 
thetic with  all  suffering. 

It  must  have  cost  him  thousands  of  dollars  annually 
to  support  temperance  lecturers  and  to  issue  temperance 
tracts.  He  waged  unrelenting  war  against  the  liquor  deal- 
ers ;  and  year  after  year  his  agents  were  presenting  bills  to 
the  Legislature  which  never  had  the  least  chance  of  being 
passed,  and  which  were  used  by  unscrupulous  men  for  the 
purpose  of  extorting  money  out  of  the  honest  fanatic. 

He  had  one  other  object  of  devotion — an  only  child,  a 
daughter  nineteen  years  old,  on  whom  he  bestowed  a  love 
boundless  as  the  ocean.  He  had  been  long  a  widower ; 
and  all  the  treasures  of  his  affections  were  reserved  for  his 
darling  Grace,  on  whom  he  showered  every  favor  and  every 
luxury  that  money  could  purchase. 

In  the  library  of  the  beautiful  home  which  has  just  been 
imperfectly  described  sat  Grace  Van  Hess,  a  girl  of  rare 
loveliness  of  face  and  figure.  Her  complexion  was  smooth, 
soft,  and  white — that  rare  Knickerbocker  complexion  found 
only  among  pure  Americans  of  Dutch  descent.  Her  hair 
and  eyes  were  in  harmony  with  the  color  and  texture  of 
her  skin.  She  would  have  been  beautiful,  but  for  an  ex- 
pression of  weakness ;  and  yet  it  was  difficult  to  say  where 
that  weakness  lay.  Perhaps  it  was  in  the  small,  delicate 


10  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

mouth ;  perhaps  in  the  eye,  which  was  large,  and  slightly 
projecting.  But  no  matter  where  it  was,  the  expression  of 
want  of  firmness  was  unmistakably  stamped  upon  her  other- 
wise charming  face  ;  reminding  one  of  a  fairly  painted  ship 
constructed  of  soft  wood,  which  may  safely  sail  in  fine 
weather,  but  will  assuredly  founder  in  the  first  tempest 
that  overtakes  her. 

Indulged  by  her  father,  her  every  want  was  not  only 
gratified  but  anticipated ;  with  domestics  and  teachers  at 
command  from  infancy,  she  had  nothing  to  think  about, 
nothing  to  fear,  nothing  to  struggle  against.  It  is  the 
hopes,  and  fears,  and  struggles,  the  high  thoughts  and  no- 
ble aspirations,  and,  above  all,  the  victory  over  ourselves, 
which  chisel  homeliness  into  beauty,  and  beat  character 
into  every  lineament  of  the  face.  It  was  this  beauty  of 
character  which  was  singularly  lacking  in  the  countenance 
of  Grace  Van  Hess. 

Dr.  George  Bailey  had  been  the  family  physician  of  Ja- 
cob Van  Hess.  When  the  doctor  had  died  involved  in 
debt,  his  son  had,  as  before  mentioned,  abandoned  his  med- 
ical studies,  and  sought  mercantile  employment  as  the  easi- 
est channel  in  which  to  earn  a  support  for  himself  and  his 
mother,  and,  in  time,  sufficient  money  to  liquidate  his  heri- 
tage of  debt.  George  Bailey  very  naturally  applied  to  Mr. 
Van  Hess,  who  gladly  gave  him  a  subordinate  position  in 
his  counting-house.  The  young  man's  vigor,  cheerfulness, 
intelligence,  and  aptitude  for  business  attracted  the  notice 
of  his  employers,  and  led  to  his  promotion  from  step  to  step, 
until  he  had  reached  the  place  of  head-clerk  and  prospec- 
tive partner  in  one  of  the  most  flourishing  houses  in  New 
York. 

George  Bailey  became  a  great  favorite  with  the  head  of 
the  firm.  About  one  year  before  the  opening  of  our  story, 
he  had  been  invited  by  Mr.  Van  Hess  to  accompany  him  to 
his  church  to  hear  some  celebrated  preacher  from  the  Old 
World  ;  and  after  the  services  were  over  he  had  been  asked 
to  an  early  Sunday  dinner.  Thus  began  his  acquaintance 
with  his  employer's  daughter  and  sole  heiress,  the  lovely 
Grace  Van  Hess.  Her  position,  her  surroundings,  her  frag- 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  11 

ile  beauty,  and  her  very  weakness,  made  her  an  object  of  at- 
traction to  the  energetic  and  ambitious  young  clerk,  whose 
family  was  superior  to  hers,  and  whose  education  and  train- 
ing made  him  the  equal  of  any  woman  in  a  republican  coun- 
try ;  and  Grace  admired,  from  the  first  interview,  the  strong, 
manly,  dashing  young  fellow,  quick  of  repartee  and  frank 
of  speech.  These  two  young  people  were  singularly  suited 
to  each  other.  He  was  dark,  strong,  courageous ;  she  fair, 
fragile,  timid ;  he  was  the  larger  segment,  she  the  smaller 
complement  which  completed  the  circle.  Her  affectionate, 
dependent  disposition  would  have  soothed  him ;  his  manly 
strength  and  determined  will  would  have  sustained  her  in 
all  the  trials  and  troubles  of  life. 

Mr.  Van  Hess  was  worth  millions ;  and  money  was  no 
object  to  him  when  weighed  in  the  balance  against  his 
daughter's  happiness.  He  had,  from  the  commencement, 
perceived  the  sterling  character  of  his  young  clerk ;  had 
seen  that  he  was  the  soul  of  truth,  honesty,  and  honor;  and 
had  observed  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  and  the  love  and 
veneration  which  he  felt  for  his  widowed  mother.  Mr. 
Van  Hess  was  growing  old,  and  his  daughters  establish- 
ment in  life  was  a  matter  of  great  concern  to  him.  He 
dreaded  seeing  her  the  wife  of  one  of  the  idle  rich  young 
men  of  the  city,  and  much  preferred  to  have  her  wed  a 
self-made  man  like  himself,  who  would  feel  grateful  for  the 
position  which  Grace's  fortune  would  bestow.  He  had 
thought  of  George  Bailey  as  a  son-in-law  long  before  the 
invitation  to  dinner;  and,  indeed,  he  had  designedly  brought 
the  young  couple  together,  and  had  furtively  watched  and 
condoned  their  meetings  and  love-makings. 

^Yhile  George  Bailey  had  been  patronizing  Myron  Finch, 
Grace  was  reading,  or  trying  to  read,  one  of  the  Idyls  of  the 
King  by  Alfred  Tennyson,  and  wondering  why  her  lover 
was  so  late  in  keeping  his  engagement.  Every  minute  or 
two  she  raised  her  eyes  from  the  handsomely  bound  vol- 
ume, and  seemed  to  be  lost  in  reverie.  It  was  evident  that 
her  mind  was  far  away  from  Arthur  and  the  Knights  of 
the  Round-table.  Her  father  had  told  her  at  dinner  of 
George  Bailey's  promotion  and  prospects,  and  had  whisper- 


12  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

ed  a  few  words  in  her  ear  which  had  brought  the  roses  to 
her  cheek.  She  was  expecting  her  lover,  and,  therefore, 
could  fasten  her  mind  on  nothing  else.  "  I  wonder  what 
detains  him ;  he  cannot  be  ill,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  as 
she  closed  the  volume  and  passed  in  front  of  a  large  mirror. 
As  she  stood  there,  with  the  rosy  tinge  of  the  light  caused 
by  the  crimson  curtains  giving  a  richer  color  to  her  face  and 
neck,  she  did,  indeed,  look  beautiful ;  and  the  evident  ad- 
miration of  her  own  charms  was  excusable.  As  she  gave 
the  finishing  touch  to  her  light  brown  hair,  she  murmured, 
"  Will  he  never  come  ?  It  is  now  past  nine  o'clock,  and  he 
promised  to  be  here  at  eight."  The  words  were  hardly  spo- 
ken when  the  loud,  clear  ring  of  the  front-door  bell  caused 
her  to  start,  and  she  had  scarcely  taken  her  seat,  book  in 
hand,  when  the  servant  announced  Mr.  Bailey. 

"  Good-evening,  Grace ;  excuse  me  for  being  tardy  ;  but 
an  old  acquaintance  called  to  see  me  on  business  and  de- 
tained me  beyond  the  usual  time." 

"  No  excuse  is  necessary :  I  have  been  so  absorbed  in 
Tennyson's  new  poem  that  I  have  taken  no  note  of  time." 

"  Then  you  did  not  miss  me  ?"  said  Bailey,  in  a  tone  of 
slight  vexation. 

"  Why  should  I  miss  you  ?  I  saw  you  on  Sunday,  and 
this  is  only  Wednesday." 

The  young  lady  seemed  to  take  a  kind  of  cat-like  pleasure 
in  annoying  her  lover,  and  found  it  a  very  easy  matter  to 
utter  many  little  fibs  to  prove  to  Mr.  Bailey  that  she  could 
live  very  well  without  his  company.  Of  course  our  simple, 
impulsive  George  believed  every  word  she  had  spoken ;  and, 
disappointed  that  she  had  not  missed  him,  or  at  least  mani- 
fested more  pleasure  at  seeing  him,  he  lifted  the  volume 
which  she  had  laid  on  the  table,  and,  to  change  the  subject, 
asked  her  if  she  were  fond  of  Tennyson. 

"  Very;  I  admire  him  very  much." 

"  I  don't,"  said  the  young  man  ;  "  he  is  too  artificial — too 
strained ;  his  figures  are  far-fetched,  and  smell  of  the  parlor 
and  the  hot-house. 

"  '  The  little  rift  within  the  lute, 

That  by-and-by  will  make  the  music  mute !' 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  13 

I  wonder  how  long  it  took  him  to  think  that  out.  His 
poetry  is  full  of  fine  filagree." 

"  Why,  George,  you  are  severe ;  your  tone  is  harsh. 
Come  over  here,  and  read  for  me  these  lines  from  Locksley 
Hall.  You  know  how  I  love  to  listen  to  your  reading." 

Grace's  voice,  as  she  made  this  request,  was  low,  loving, 
and  persuasive.  George  opened  the  volume,  and  read  in  a 
deep,  grave  tone,  and  with  much  feeling,  one  of  the  very 
best  of  the  poet's  productions.  If  Biiley  could  have  seen 
the  expression  of  her  eyes  .while  he  read,  he  would  have 
heen  perfectly  satisfied  that  she,  at  least,  admired  his  manly 
beauty. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  she  asked,  as  George 
closed  the  volume. 

"  I  think  it  exquisite  art,  but  nothing  more — art  of  the 
highest  order,  which  is,  in  some  respects,  superior  to  genius, 
because  genius  is  not  always  understood,  while  art  is.  Art, 
for  example,  is  never  ambiguous,  while  genius  often  is. 
Compare  this  with  that  about  the  lute : 

"  '  Pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread ; 

You  touch  the  flower,  the  bloom  is  shed ; 
Or,  like  the  snow-flake  on  the  river, 
A  moment  white,  then  lost  forever.' 

Here  a  natural  poet  looks  over  the  fields,  or  scans  the 
winter's  sky,  and  finds  the  material  for  the  best  of  figures. 
He  does  not  search  the  parlor  for  a  lute,  nor  the  cellar  for 
a  barrel  of  apples." 

"  George,  you  must  have  read  everything.  I  am  ashamed 
of  my  ignorance.  Except  the  fashionable  books  of  the 
day,  I  have  read  nothing.  Tennyson  happens  to  be  the 
fashion  now,  and  so  I  must  be  prepared  to  hold  my  own  in 
society." 

Grace  uttered  this  in  a  tone  of  sadness,  which  smote  the 
loving  heart  of  George  Bailey. 

"  Never  mind,  my  darling,  it  is  all  the  better.  After  our 
marriage  we  shall  have  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  reading  to- 
gether ;"  and  George  took  her  little  hand  in  both  his  and 
tenderly  caressed  it.  "  We  shall  begin  with  old  Geoffrey 


14  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Chaucer,  and  we  shall  read  the  poets  down  to  that  prince 
of  poets  and  king  of  novelists,  Walter  Scott." 

The  young  girl  placed  the  disengaged  hand  fondly  on  his 
shoulder,  and,  looking  lovingly  into  his  tender  eyes,  said, 

"  George,  you  will  have  to  teach  me  a  great  deal.  You 
will  have  to  bear  with  my  weaknesses,  and  train  me  to  be 
strong." 

George's  reply  to  this  sealed  her  lips,  but  in  a  physical 
way. 

"  Train  you,  darling !  of  course  I  will,  on  condition  that 
you  train  me ;  for  you  see  I  am  the  quickest  and  most  im- 
pulsive sort  of  fellow  you  ever  saw,  and  I  trust  everybody. 
Even  this  evening  my  dear  mother  gave  me  what  would  be, 
from  any  other  person,  a  severe  scolding  for  promising  to 
assist  an  old  college  acquaintance,  Myron  Finch.  Yes,  dar- 
ling, you  must  train  me  to  be  sedate,  calm,  cool ;  you  must 
make  me  a  sort  of  human  refrigerator,  so  that  I  may  repel 
people  who  come  to  prey  on  my  good-nature." 

"  George,  I  am  so  weak,  and  you  are  so  strong !  It  always 
seems  to  me  as  if  you  must  be  victorious,  triumphant  over  all 
difficulties.  My  education  has  cost  enormous  sums  of  money, 
and  I  know  literally  nothing.  Where  were  you  educated?" 

"  Chiefly  at  home,"  replied  Bailey.  "  My  mother  taught 
me  until  I  was  eleven  years  of  age,  and  taught  me  most  ad- 
mirably ;  then  she  sent  me  to  a  good  day-school,  but  still 
superintended  my  studies  during  the  evening.  This  con- 
tinued until  I  was  prepared  for  college.  During  these 
years  my  mother  selected  my  general  reading  matter,  mark- 
ed the  portions  of  the  great  poets  that  I  was  to  commit  to 
memory,  and  even  chose  the  best  novels  for  me,  as  she  said, 
to  cultivate  my  imagination.  I  graduated  from  Columbia 
College  at  the  age  of  twenty ;  ranked  among  the  honor-men 
of  my  class ;  might  have  been  head,  only  mother  thought  it 
was  not  good  for  me — might  make  me  conceited,  and  spoil 
me.  Grace,  I  tell  you  my  mother  is  a  wonderful  woman ! 
Wait  until  you  know  her  as  I  do !  Well,  my  course  in  the 
medical  college  was  nearly  finished,  when  my  father  died, 
and  I  had  to  earn  money  to  support  mother  and  myself. 
My  ID  other,  Grace,  was  my  best  teacher." 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  15 

"And  I  have  had  no  mother,"  said  Grace,  sadly ;  "  but — 
but — won't  your  mother  love  me  as — as — a  daughter,  and 
won't  she  teach  me  many  things  that  I  ought  to  know  ?" 

"  Of  course  she  will ;  she  will  be  as  much  your  mother  as. 
mine.  But  that  brings  me  to  the  point.  Grace,  my  sweet 
love  " — and  he  took  her  hand  again  in  both  his — "  I  have 
good  news  for  you.  I  have  been  promoted  to  the  position 
of  head-clerk,  and  have  been  promised  a  partnership  in  the 
firm  at  the  end  of  this  year.  Seeing  I  stood  well  with  your 
father,  I  asked — for — for  what,  think  you  ?  for  YOU  !  Ila, 
ha,  ha !"  and  the  enraptured  Bailey  snatched  a  kiss.  "  Yes, 
for  you,  Grace ;  and  the  old  gentleman  gave  me  a  very  dip- 
lomatic answer.  Give  me  a  kiss,  love,  and  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  was.  He  said, '  You  must  apply  to  the  party  concerned, 
for  she  had  passed  out  of  his  jurisdiction  long  ago.'  The 
'  party  concerned !'  That  was  good,  Grace,  wasn't  it  ?" 

Grace  Van  Hess  laughed  a  low  laugh,  which  annoyed 
Bailey,  for  he  could  not  understand  its  meaning.  With 
considerable  anxiety  in  his  tone,  he  said, 

"  Grace,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  laugh  ?" 

"  Oh  !  nothing,  nothing.  It  was  so  pleasant  to  be  lovers 
under  difficulties  !  It  was  so  romantic,  and  all  that !  '  The 
course  of  true-love,'  you  know,  and  so  forth.  But  now  that 
you  and  my  father  have  made  the  course  run  so  smoothly, 
I  have  a  good  mind  to  run  off  into  the  rough  places,  among 
the  briers  and  the  bowlders,  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing." 

"  Why,  my  love,  what  means  this  change  in  a  moment?" 

"It  means  —  ha!  ha!  ha!"  and  the  low  laugh  again 
smote  discordantly  on  the  heart  of  George  Bailey  — "  it 
means  that  you  have  taken  the  very  life  out  of  our  ro- 
mance ;  our  romantic  engagement  has  been  spoiled.  Let 
me  see  how  it  ran :  '  you  were  to  gain  a  commanding  posi- 
tion before  you  sought  my  hand  in  marriage,  and  I  my  fa- 
ther's permission  before  I  consented.'  Now  both  have  been 
accomplished,  and  me — whither  shall  I  fly  ?" 

Here  the  very  weakness  of  character  which  she  herself 
had  deplored  but  a  few  minutes  previously  manifested  it- 
self. The  spoiled  darling  of  fortune  had  obtained  her 
heart's  desire  too  easily.  She  would,  perhaps,  have  prefer- 


16  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

red  her  father's  opposition  and  an  elopement.  But  to  be 
won  in  this  easy,  prosaic  fashion  was  almost  unbearable. 
And  yet,  in  her  way,  she  loved  George  Bailey ;  she  would 
not  have  lost  him  for  the  world ;  she  valued  his  love  be- 
yond everything  else  in  the  universe.  But  there  was  a  vein 
of  romantic  coquetry  in  Grace  Van  Hess,  born  of  the  exciting 
French  novels  which  had  fallen  into  her  hands  at  the  plastic 
age  of  fifteen  years,  and  this  coquetry  caused  her  to  play,  cat- 
like, with  the  truest  heart  that  ever  beat  in  human  breast. 

"  Grace,  my  own  darling,  you  love  me,  I  know  you  love 
me ;  and  surely  you  ought  to  be  glad  that  your  good  fa- 
ther has  removed  every  obstacle  from  our  path." 

Bailey  had  seized  her  hand,  and  was  sadly,  earnestly,  lov- 
ingly gazing  on  the  beautiful  face  before  him.  Her  mood 
changed  once  more,  as  she  said, 

"  Will  you  answer  me  truthfully  "  (and  the  word  "  truth- 
fully "  grated  on  George's  ear)  one  question  ?  Would  you 
have  married  me  had  I  been  the  daughter  of  Timothy  Quin, 
father's  porter?" 

Bailey  hesitated  to  answer  this  question.  lie  was  in  the 
strictest  sense  of  the  word  a  man  of  truth.  He  knew  that 
he  was  ambitious ;  he  knew  that  he  could  never  have  loved 
the  daughter  of  Timothy  Quin  had  she  been  as  beautiful  as 
Venus.  He  now  recalled  his  feelings  and  thoughts  on  that 
Sunday  when  first  asked  to  dine  with  Jacob  Van  Hess ;  and 
he  recollected  too  well  that  one  of  the  factors  that  caused 
him  to  seek  the  daughter  was  that,  by  this  means,  he  might 
become  a  partner  in  the  firm. 

Grace  noticed  his  hesitation,  and  had  she  been  a  girl  of 
a  higher  order  of  intellect  and  of  moral  nature  she  would 
have  respected  and  loved  him  all  the  more  for  it.  She 
would  have  seen  that  had  he  been  a  man  of  less  integrity, 
he  would  have  promptly  replied  that,  "  Of  course,  he  would 
have  loved  her  for  her  goodness  and  her  beauty  had  she 
been  the  daughter  of  a  felon  or  a  convict." 

Grace  repeated  her  question. 

"  Your  question,  Grace,  is  a  difficult  one  to  answer.  In 
the  first  place,  the  daughter  of  Timothy  Quin  could  never 
be  like  you — could  never  have  your  education  or  your  man- 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  17 

ncrs,  even  if  she  had  your  beauty.  In  the  second  place,  I 
cannot  truthfully  say  how  far  your  father's  kindness  mould- 
ed my  feelings  for  his  daughter.  I  cannot  say  how  far  the 
aroma  which  wealth  breathes  on  all  it  touches  may  have 
turned  my  thoughts  in  your  direction.  This  is  the  naked 
truth.  I  can  now  say  as  a  man  of  honor  that  I  have  never 
loved  any  woman  but  you,  and  that  now  I  would  marry 
you  were  you  as  poor  as  a  pauper  of  the  streets." 

"That  will  do,  George — that  will  do.  You  know  that 
no  woman  likes  to  be  married  for  her  wealth.  Pardon  me. 
I  am  wilful ;  I  ought  not  to  wound  your  loyal  heart." 

"  Now,  Grace,  my  darling,  you  talk  like  your  own  sweet 
self :  you  were  only  joking  a  moment  ago ;  but,  dear,  you 
must  not  do  it  again ;  it  is  too  serious  a  matter  to  joke 
about.  If  I  lost  respect  for  you,  I  would  tear  your  image 
out  of  my  heart  even  at  the  cost  of  my  life.  I  could  not 
continue,  I  would  not  continue,  to  love  the  woman  whom  I 
had  ceased  to  respect." 

It  seemed  as  if  a  ray  of  light  had  fallen  on  Grace  Van 
Iless's  character,  and  had  caused  George  Bailey  an  invol- 
untary shudder.  She  perceived  her  error,  and,  to  make 
amends,  grew  caressing  in  her  manner,  and  tried  to  soothe 
him  with  a  tone  of  tenderness.  She  asked  him  about  his 
duties  and  financial  affairs,  of  which  she  understood  as 
much  as  she  did  of  the  Binomial  Theorem.  After  she  had 
smoothed  the  temper  of  her  lover,  he  took  his  leave  not 
quite  so  elated  as  when  he  left  his  mother. 


CHA.PTER  III. 

"  I  do  not  think  a  braver  gentleman, 
More  active  valiant,  or  more  valiant-young, 
More  daring,  or  more  bold,  is  now  alive, 
To  grace  this  latter  age  with  noble  deeds." 

HIIAKSPF.ARE. 

THE  next  morning,  according  to  his  promise,  Bailey  in- 
troduced Myron  Finch  to  the  head  of  the  firm,  and  recom- 
mended him  for  the  vacancy  caused  by  a  general  promotion 


18  GEOKGE   BAILEY. 

of  the  clerks.  Mr.  Van  Hess  asked  Finch  a  few  questions 
concerning  his  qualifications  and  testimonials,  and,  chiefly 
on  the  strength  of  Bailey's  recommendation,  appointed  him 
to  the  position. 

Myron  Finch  performed  his  duties  in  a  quiet,  orderly 
manner,  which  gave  entire  satisfaction  to  his  employers. 
Toward  George  Bailey  his  manner  was  that  of  a  profoundly 
grateful  man  ;  he  was  lavish  in  his  praises  of  the  goodness, 
the  ability,  and  the  industry  of  the  head-clerk,  and  sought 
occasion  to  flatter  him  as  a  paragon  of  perfection.  Bailey 
was  not  naturally  a  vain  man,  for  he  had  too  many  excellent 
qualities  for  vanity  to  find  a  home  in  his  heart.  Men  arc 
usually  vain  of  what  they  are  not ;  seldom  of  what  they  re- 
ally are.  Nevertheless,  the  adroit  flatteries  of  Myron  Finch 
pleased  him,  and  day  after  day  George  found  that  the  socie- 
ty of  his  new  friend  became  dearer  and  dearer  to  him.  On 
several  occasions  he  had  invited  Finch  to  dine  with  him, 
and  on  every  occasion  his  mother  had  warned  him  to  be- 
ware. These  warnings  George  scouted  as  the  offspring  of 
maternal  fancy,  slightly  out  of  tune  in  consequence  of  too 
much  lonely  meditation  on  the  past.  He  told  her  to  go 
out  every  day  and  take  the  air ;  that  the  fresh  air  of  heaven 
would  quickly  blow  away  these  foolish,  morbid  fancies. 
Mrs.  Bailey  would  reply  by  saying,  "  I  hope  you  are  right, 
George,  and  I  wrong.  But  some  feeling  —  perhaps  inde- 
scribable—  I  might  describe  it  to  a  woman,  but  not  to  a 
man — tells  me  that  this  Myron  Finch  is  your  evil  genius, 
and  that  he  will  yet  sting  you  like  an  adder.  George,  see- 
ing this  ineradicable  dislike  and  terror  of  Finch,  soon  ceased 
to  invite  him  to  his  home,  and  found  means  to  meet  and 
talk  with  him  elsewhere. 

Finch  was  a  close,  keen  observer,  and  quickly  fathomed 
the  best  and  worst  characteristics  of  Mr.  Van  Hess ;  and, 
resolved  to  please  his  principal  employer,  he  assumed  a  tone 
and  bearing  of  profound  piety.  He  bought  religious  news- 
papers and  books,  and  ostentatiously  placed  them  where 
they  could  be  noticed ;  and  he  became  a  strong  advocate  of 
total  abstinence  from  intoxicating  drinks.  He  even  went  so 
far  as  to  reprove  the  cartmen  and  laborers,  in  the  presence 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  19 

of  Mr.  Van  Hess,  for  using  profane  language,  and  found 
fault  with  Timothy  Quin,  the  porter,  for  using  tobacco, 
which  was  only  an  incitement  to  strong  drink.  Myron 
Finch  regularly  but  unobtrusively  attended  Mr.  Van  Hess's 
church ;  and  on  one  occasion  he  had  the  honor  of  an  intro- 
duction to  his  daughter  Grace. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  the  two  young  men  were  slowly 
walking  up  Broadway  toward  their  homes,  when  they  were 
attracted  by  a  crowd  at  the  City  Hall  steps  listening  to  a 
man  declaiming. 

"  Let's  see  what's  up.  Come,  Finch,  let's  see  the  crowd 
and  hear  the  preacher." 

"No,  no,"  replied  Finch, "  it  is  only  that  vulgar  fellow, 
Grady,  ranting  on  temperance.  He  is  one  of  Van  Hess's 
reformed  drunkards,  now  telling  his  experience,  and  denounc- 
ing the  liquor-dealers  and  the  rum-shops." 

"Come — come  on,  Finch;  I  really  wish  to  see  and  hear 
this  Grady.  I  have  heard  so  much  about  him,  I  am  anxious 
to  see  what  manner  of  man  he  is." 

The  two  young  men  drew  toward  the  outer  line  of  the 
crowd,  and  saw  a  curious  sea  of  human  faces  turned  toward 
a  man  furiously  declaiming,  roaring,  screaming,  pounding 
one  hand  with  the  other,  and  gesticulating  in  the  wildest 
and  most  uncouth  manner.  He  was  a  stout -built,  bull- 
necked  Irishman,  apparently  about  forty  years  old.  His 
head  was  large  and  round,  the  hair  closely  cropped,  and  the 
face  cleanly  shaven ;  his  complexion  was  sallow,  his  eyes 
keen,  small,  black,  and  round,  and,  like  the  eyes  of  most 
born  orators,  slightly  protuberant ;  his  mouth  was  large, 
though  the  lips  were  mobile  and  well  chiselled.  At  the 
present  moment  his  eye  was  gleaming  with  a  fiery  zeal  that 
seemed  to  consume  him.  Legs  and  arms  were  wildly  tossed 
about,  after  the  manner  of  some  Western  speakers,  whose 
trick  he  seemed  to  have  acquired.  In  spite  of  the  man's 
rasping  brogue,  in  spite  of  many  violations  of  the  rules  of 
grammar,  rhetoric,  and  logic,  there  was  in  his  composition 
no  small  share  of  the  divine  afflatus  which  makes  men  poets 
and  orators. 

"  Fellow-citizens,  fellow-countrymen  !   why  do  ye  throw 


20  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

away  your  money  for  the  diabolic  poisons  which  destroys 
yer  lives  and  ruins  yer  families?  Alcohol — alcohol  has  been 
the  bane  of  our  nationality ;  and  here  ye  come  and  plant 
a  low  groggery  on  every  corner  of  this  noble  city  ;  and 
the  miserable,  degraded  reptiles  who  make  money  on  yer 
misfortunes  dress  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  leave  ye  and 
your  children  to  starve.  There  will  never  be  peace,  law,  or- 
der, quiet  happiness,  and  prosperity  among  ye,  until  ye  rise 
as  one  man  and  gut  out  the  rum-holes.  When  men  drank 
whiskey  in  Ireland  or  Scotland,  it  was  whiskey  in  reality; 
it  was  not  poisoned  colored  alcohol,  which  maddened  ye 
and  sent  ye  home  to  beat  and  abuse  your  wives.  Did  one 
of  ye  ever  hear  of  an  Irishman  kicking  and  killing  his  wife 
in  old  Ireland  ?  Never !  (Cheers)  Ye  may  well  cheer ! 
Did  ye  ever  hear  of  an  Irishman  beating,  and  killing,  and 
murdering  his  wife  in  New  York?  Ah  !  ye  may  well  hang 
yer  heads  for  shame.  Well,  fellow-countrymen,  I  tell  ye  no 
Irishman  in  America,  in  his  right  senses,  ever  laid  his  hand 
on  his  wife,  except  in  kindness,  unless  he  was  maddened 
with  poisoned  rum.  So  down  with  the  rum-holes !  exter- 
minate them — root  them  out  forever!  Rum  is  our  enemy; 
rum  has  done  us  more  injury  than  all  the  Saxons  ever  born 
across  the  water.  Down  with  the  liquor-sellers !" 

AVhile  Grady  was  denouncing  the  men  who  fatten  on  the 
folly  of  their  neighbors,  a  band  of  about  twenty  men  were 
edging  their  way  slowly  and  together  up  to  the  step  from 
which  the  orator  was  addressing  the  crowd.  For  the  time 
being  the  declaimer  seemed  carried  away  by  the  very  fierce- 
ness of  his  rage ;  for  he  did  not  see,  or,  if  he  saw,  did  not 
notice,  the  angry  scowls  of  that  part  of  his  audience  direct- 
ly in  front  of  him.  "  Liar !"  "  ranter !"  "hound !"  " let  us 
duck  him  in  the  river !"  were  some  of  the  expressions  that 
fell  on  the  ears  of  Bailey  and  Finch.  Both  saw  the  danger 
to  which  Grady  was  exposed,  as  the  angry  crowd  surged 
nearer  and  nearer. 

"Madman!  fool !"  exclaimed  Finch,  "you'll  be  torn  in 
pieces !" 

"  By  Jove,  he's  a  brave  fellow  !  lie  no  more  fears  them 
than  he  does  the  marble  steps  on  which  he  stands!"  rejoin- 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  21 

cd  Bailey,  with  a  gleam  of  admiration  at  the  speaker's  au- 
dacity. 

In  one  of  the  pauses  in  the  oration,  Grady  caught  the  ex- 
pressions, "liar"  and  "thief,"  and,  turning  quickly  around, 
said,  in  a  tone  clear,  distinct,  and  ringing,  penetrating  far 
beyond  the  place  where  the  young  men  were  standing,  in  a 
tone,  too,  quite  natural,  for  the  oratorical  voice  had  been 
dropped,  "  Will  the  coward  that  called  me  names  just  step 
up  here  and  repeat  them  ?" 

But  no  man  in  the  crowd  accepted  the  invitation. 

"  Cowards  !"  continued  Grady — "  you,  who  make  widows 
and  orphans  by  the  hundred,  rnay  slink  behind  your  com- 
panions, and  cry  'liar'  from  a  safe  distance;  but  not  a 
villain  among  ye  dares  to  meet  this  carnal  weapon  ;"  and 
the  orator  raised  an  arm  that  might  well  make  the  bravest 
of  them  think  twice  before  he  encountered  its  full  force. 
"  I  am  not  talking,"  said  he,  "  to  the  corner  rum-sellers ;  I 
am  talking  to  and  advising  their  poor  dupes.  Oh,  my  fel- 
low-citizens, why  will  ye  spend  your  money  for  that  which 
not  only  maddens  but  poisons  ye,  which  reduces  you  to  a 
state  lower  than  the  brutes,  which  destroys  yer  bodies  and 
yer  souls  ?" 

The  compact  crowd  of  about  twenty  men  continued  to 
press  closer  and  closer  to  the  speaker;  and  Bailey  saw,  to 
his  dismay,  that  they  now  completely  surrounded  him. 
Some  one  struck  Grady  on  the  forehead  with  a  stone, 
which  made  an  ugly  gash,  and  caused  the  blood  to  flow 
quite  freely.  This  was  the  signal  for  the  angry  mass  to 
close  in  on  him,  and  twenty  arms  were  raised  to  strike  him 
down. 

"  Come  away,  Bailey — come  away,"  said  Finch  ;  "  we'll 
get  into  trouble." 

"See!  see!"  exclaimed  Bailey,  "  the  crowd  have  attacked 
him — one  brave  man  against  twenty  cowards !  By  Jove, 
that  will  never  do ;  that  is  not  American  !"  and,  in  spite  of 
Finch's  effort  to  detain  him,  George  Bailey  rushed  up  the 
steps,  and  struck  right  and  left,  knocking  down  a  man  at 
every  blow.  One  villain  had  drawn  a  knife,  and  in  another 
moment  would  have  plunged  it  into  Grady's  back,  had  not 


•2-2  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Bailey  observed  the  action,  and  felled  him  to  the  marble 
pavement  like  a  log  of  wood.  "With  every  well-directed 
blow  he  shouted,  "  Stand  back  !  stand  back  !  shame  on  you  ! 
One  man  against  twenty  !"  The  very  fury  of  George  Bai- 
ley's attack,  for  a  minute  or  two,  caused  Grady's  assailants 
to  pause.  During  the  lull  he  shouted,  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  "  This  is  a  free  country,  of  free  speech ;  and  if  you 
don't  like  the  speaker's  language,  you  need  not  listen  to 
him  ;  you  can  go  away  about  your  business." 

But  the  cowardly  mob  soon  recovered  from  the  panic 
caused  by  Bailey's  sudden  attack ;  and  one  of  their  number 
cried  out,  "  Come  on,  boys  !  there  are  only  two  of  'era — let 
us  lick  'em  both !"  But  the  words  were  hardly  out  of  his 
mouth  when  Bailey  struck  him  a  terrific  blow,  which  sent 
him  spinning  down  the  steps,  and  stretched  him  on  the 
gravel-walk  below.  Grady  and  Bailey  were  now  in  deadly 
peril ;  and  had  not  the  noise  and  uproar  brought  the  police 
to  their  rescue,  it  is  more  than  likely  that  both  would  have 
been  murdered  on  the  spot.  The  whole  affair  had  taken 
place  in  less  time  than  we  have  taken  to  describe  it.  Mr. 
Myron  Finch  had  kept  himself  carefully  in  the  rear  of  the 
fracas ;  but,  now  that  it  was  over  and  all  personal  danger  at 
an  end,  he  rejoined  his  companion,  and  pretended  that  he 
had  been  endeavoring  to  come  to  his  rescue,  but  was  unable 
to  reach  him  owing  to  the  compactness  of  the  crowd. 

As  soon  as  the  mob  was  dispersed,  Mr.  John  Grady  ap- 
proached his  preserver,  grasped  him  by  the  hand,  and  re- 
quested the  name  of  the  man  who  had  saved  his  life. 

"My  name  is  George  Bailey.  But  that  was  nothing; 
I  would  have  done  the  same  thing  for  the  meanest  thief,  if 
that  thief  were  assailed  by  twenty  other  thieves." 

"  Mr.  Bailey,"  replied  Grady,  "  you  are  a  brave  man — a 
fine,  courageous  gentleman ;  and  you  strike  with  the  arm 
of  a  gladiator.  You  have  saved  my  life  this  day,  and  the 
life  you  have  saved  is  henceforth  at  your  service." 

This  was  spoken  by  Grady  in  a  rich  Celtic  brogue,  which 
we  take  the  liberty  of  omitting,  as  his  language  otherwise 
was  not  bad,  and  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling  indicative  of  his 
gratitude  toward  his  preserver. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  23 

"  Mr.  Grady,"  said  Bailey,  "  instead  of  thanking  me  for 
such  a  trifle,  you  had  better  come  over  with  us  to  the  drug 
store  and  have  that  ugly  wound  on  your  forehead  attended 
to.  It  bleeds  quite  freely." 

"  It's  only  a  scratch,"  rejoined  Grady,  as  he  wiped  the 
blood  off  his  face  with  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

All  this  time  Mr.  Myron  Finch  was  a  silent  spectator — 
fidgety,  uneasy,  and  anxious  to  get  away.  Bailey  had  not 
introduced  him,  and  so  he  acted  with  Grady  as  if  he  had 
known  him  all  his  life,  his  object  being  to  avoid  the  men- 
tion of  his  name ;  for,  though  John  Grady  did  not  know 
Myron  Finch,  Myron  Finch  knew  John  Grady  well,  and  had 
been  anxious  to  avoid  a  meeting  from  the  moment  that 
Bailey  had  made  the  proposition  to  enter  the  park  to  see 
and  hear  the  notorious  temperance  lecturer.  We  shall  show 
very  shortly  why  Mr.  Grady  was  the  last  man  on  earth 
whose  acquaintance  would  be  desired  by  Mr.  Myron  Finch. 

The  two  young  men  left  Grady  in  the  drug  store  to  have 
his  wound  attended  to,  and  then  resumed  their  walk,  arm- 
in-arm,  up  Broadway.  Ah,  upon  what  a  slight  thread  does 
our  future  destiny  hang !  Had  George  Bailey  mentioned 
the  name  of  Myron  Finch  to  John  Grady,  he,  Bailey,  might 
have  saved  years  of  misery.  But  it  was  not  to  be. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  This  world  to  me  is  like  a  lasting  storm, 
Whirring  me  from  my  friends." — SHAKSPKARE. 

THE  day  was  rapidly  approaching  when  George  Bailey 
and  Grace  Van  Hess  were  to  be  joined  together  in  holy 
wedlock.  Everywhere  among  the  wealthy  connections  of 
Mr.  Van  Hess,  George  was  cordially  received  as  the  accept- 
ed suitor,  as  the  engaged  husband,  of  the  young  and  lovely 
heiress.  She  was  proud  of  his  manly  bearing,  his  good 
looks,  his  physical  strength,  and  of  that  reckless  courage  so 
dear  to  timid  women.  One  thing  only  she  regretted,  and 
that  was  that  he  was  not  a  soldier.  She  often  reflected 


24  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

how  well  lie  would  appear  in  a  military  uniform,  and  what 
a  fine  officer  he  would  make.  Like  many  daughters  of  suc- 
cessful merchants,  she  was  ashamed  of  her  father's  business ; 
and  she  had  acquired  the  aristocratic  idea  that  trade  is  ple- 
beian, and  that  the  army  and  navy  are  the  proper  places 
for  young  gentlemen  of  means.  Grace  had  a  sensuous  eye 
for  color,  and  hence  the  scarlet  or  blue  of  a  military  uni- 
form for  her  possessed  a  peculiar  charm.  The  brightest 
intellect,  the  purest  moral  nature,  dressed  in  a  sober  suit  of 
black,  stood  no  chance  with  Grace  Van  Hess,  as  against  the 
most  insipid  youth,  if  that  youth  were  only  adorned  with 
the  gay  glitter  of  a  regimental  uniform.  Had  George  Bai- 
ley been  an  army  officer,  her  happiness  would  have  been 
complete.  When  the  newspapers  described  how  boldly, 
how  gallantly,  Bailey  had  rescued  John  Grady  from  the 
mob,  the  tears  of  joy  and  pride  welled  up  in  her  eyes,  and 
she  inwardly  called  him  "  her  hero."  Her  father  was  al- 
most as  proud  of  him  as  the  daughter.  Jacob  Van  Hess 
had  but  one  fault  to  find  with  his  future  son-in-law  :  he  did 
not  take  sufficient  interest  in  the  temperance  movement ; 
and  worse  than  this,  instead  of  being  a  Methodist,  he  was 
a  High-Church  Episcopalian. 

After  discussing  the  rescue  of  Grady  and  praising  George 
for  his  conduct,  the  .old  gentleman  remarked  to  Grace,  "  I 
am  sorry  that  George  does  not  take  any  interest  in  any  of 
the  revivals,  nor  in  the  grand  work  of  the  temperance  peo- 
ple to  overthrow  the  reign  of  Rum.  He  is  keen  and  intel- 
ligent enough  in  the  performance  of  every  duty  connected 
with  business ;  scrupulously  honest  and  conscientious  in  all 
the  relations  of  life;  and  he  "is  an  excellent  son,  and,  Grace, 
you  know  the  old  adage,  '  A  good  son  makes  a  good  hus- 
band/ But  yet — yet,  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  he  had  a 
little  more  religious  piety." 

"  But,  father,  is  not  George  as  good  a  Christian  as  most 
people  ?  He  goes  to  church,  and  believes  in  God,  in  the 
Saviour,  and  in  the  Bible.  What  more  can  we  ask  ?  He  is 
not  at  all  bigoted,  for  you  know  he  goes  to  church  with  me 
every  Sunday." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  all  that.     He  is  as  good  as  the  general 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  25 

run  of  professing  Christians ;  but — but,"  and  the  old  gen- 
tleman seemed  to  reflect — "  now,  there's  his  friend,  Finch, 
just  as  sharp  and  clear-headed  in  business  as  Bailey,  but  so 
truly  religious !  He  is  never  without  a  pious  book  or  a 
religious  newspaper.  He  always  carries  a  little  copy  of  the 
Xew  Testament  in  his  pocket,  and  during  lunch  hour  I  have 
often  surprised  him  in  the  act  of  reading  the  Gospels.  He 
told  me,  one  day,  that  when  he  was  leaving  his  home  in 
Vermont  his  dear  mother  gave  him  that  pocket  edition, 
with  strict  injunctions  to  read  it  night  and  morning;  and 
the  tears  came  to  the  poor  fellow's  eyes  as  he  told  me  that 
his  mother  had  died  quite  recently,  and  that  the  little  Tes- 
tament was  a  great  comfort  to  him.  I  have  heard  him  re- 
prove Quin  for  using  tobacco,  and  the  draymen  for  swear- 
ing. Ah !  Grace,  young  Finch  is  a  marvel  of  religious  pie- 
ty for  one  of  his  years.  It  is  truly  a  good  old  head  on 
very  young  shoulders." 

"Finch — Mr.  Myron  Finch?  Do  you  mean  the  young 
man  with  pale  face,  pale  eyes,  pale  hair,  and  with  paleness 
all  over  him,  whom  George  introduced  to  me  one  Sunday 
coming  out  of  church  ?  He  looks  so  good,  so  mild,  so  in- 
nocent !  Now,  father,  George  Bailey  is  worth  forty  thou- 
sand such  wishy-washy  young  men." 

"  Don't  understand  me,  my  dear,  as  uttering  one  word 
against  your  affianced  husband.  On  the  contrary,  George 
is  a  noble  fellow ;  only — only — I  wish  he  was  as  devout  a 
Christian  as  his  friend  Finch." 

In  truth,  Jacob  Van  Hess  was  one  of  those  well-meaning 
men,  of  limited  and  narrow  vision,  who  found  it  difficult 
to  trust  the  honor  of  any  man  who  was  not  a  professing 
Christian  of  his  own  denomination.  He  could  hardly  ad- 
mit that  a  pagan  like  Cato  could  be  a  man  of  the  highest 
integrity ;  and  he  doubted  the  honesty  of  the  most  con- 
scientious Roman  Catholics.  If  a  clerk  seeking  employ- 
ment produced  a  testimonial  from  a  Methodist  minister, 
that  testimonial  outweighed  a  hundred  recommendations 
from  merchants  of  the  highest  standing.  It  will  be  read- 
ily seen,  from  this  alloy  in  a  character  otherwise  good  and 
noble,  what  an  influence,  in  so  short  a  time,  Myron  Finch 


26  GEOEGE   BAILEY. 

had  gained  over  the  mind  of  his  employer.  This  influence 
Finch  carefully  concealed  from  Bailey.  Perhaps  he  was 
afraid  of  rousing  the  latter' s  jealousy,  or  perhaps  he  had  a 
more  sinister  motive.  The  pious  books  and  papers  which 
Mr.  Van  Hess  had  mentioned  to  Grace,  Bailey  was  never 
permitted  to  see. 

It  was  observed  that  a  singular  intimacy  had  sprung  up 
between  Myron  Finch  and  Timothy  Quin ;  and  when  Bai- 
ley jokingly  rallied  his  friend  concerning  this  incongruous 
friendship,  it  was  explained  by  the  remark,  "I  am  trying 
to  make  a  convert  of  him !"  Timothy's  duties  were  very 
miscellaneous,  if  not  multitudinous.  He  went  on  errands ; 
lie  swept  out  the  store  and  the  offices ;  he  put  away  the 
books ;  he  lighted  the  fires ;  in  fact,  he  was  the  servant  of 
all.  He  was  a  cunning,  ignorant,  sycophantic  Irishman,  with 
a  vulgar  face  deeply  marked  by  the  small-pox,  and  a  quick, 
furtive  eye,which  never  permitted  the  slightest  thing  to  escape 
it.  Being  himself  devoid  of  every  semblance  of  a  conscience, 
and  a  thorough  rogue  at  heart,  he  had  no  faith  in  human 
goodness,  and  was  suspicious  of  all  who  approached  him. 

One  evening  George  Bailey  was  obliged  to  return  to  the 
counting-house  for  something  which  he  had  forgotten,  and 
what  was  his  astonishment  to  find  Finch  and  Quin  with 
their  heads  close  together  and  engaged  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion !  It  was  after  eight  o'clock.  They  were  in  the  inner 
private  office,  a  place  sacred  to  the  members  of  the  firm 
and  the  head-clerk.  For  a  moment  Finch  was  confused, 
but,  quickly  recovering — for  he  was  a  young  man  of  rare 
coolness  and  self-possession — he  said  that  "  he  had  lost  his 
pocket-book  somewhere  during  the  day,  and,  thinking  that 
it  might  have  been  in  the  store,  he  had  come  down  to  look 
for  it.  He  knew  that  Quin  did  not  usually  finish  the 
sweeping  until  nearly  nine  o'clock ;  and  so  it  was  just  as 
he  had  surmised,  honest  Timothy  Quin  had  found  and  re- 
turned it."  To  this  honest  Timothy  nodded  his  head  with 
an  affirmative  nod,  as  much  as  to  say,  honesty  is  but  another 
name  for  Quin.  Bailey  was  the  most  unsuspicious  of  men. 
He  took  Finch  by  the  arm,  and  both  walked  up  Broadway, 
the  best  and  most  cordial  of  friends. 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  27 

About  a  month  after  the  time  when  Bailey  had  found 
Finch  and  Quin  together  in  the  private  office  of  the  count- 
ing-house at  such  an  unseasonable  hour,  Mr.  Vanderbilt,  the 
junior  partner,  returned  from  the  South,  whither  he  had 
gone  in  search  of  health  very  much  impaired  by  too  close 
an  application  to  business.  This  gentleman  had  had  charge 
of  the  financial  affairs  of  the  firm  before  his  departure,  and 
during  his  absence  this  duty  had  been  assigned  to  George 
Bailey.  No  one,  however,  had  power  to  draw  checks  ex- 
cept Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess. 

Mr.  Vanderbilt  called  Mr.  Van  Hess  into  the  inner  office, 
and  carefully  closing  the  door,  said, 

"  Mr.  Van  Hess,  do  you  know  anything  of  this  check  ? 
It  struck  me  yesterday  as  somewhat  singular.  It  was  re- 
turned among  twenty  or  twenty-five  cancelled  checks,  and 
in  looking  over  the  books  I  could  find  no  business  transac- 
tions with  the  banking-house  of  Warrenton,  Wilde  &  Co. 
In  fact,  I  could  find  no  record  of  it  anywhere." 

Mr.  Van  Hess  scrutinized  the  check  very  carefully,  and 
with  an  anxious  and  troubled  expression  of  face,  and  then 
replied  that  neither  the  firm  nor  himself,  individually,  had 
ever  owed  William  Wilde  one  cent,  and  that  he  had  never 
signed  that  check. 

"  Your  signature  is  well  copied,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Admirably.  No  wonder  the  paying-teller  of  the  bank 
was  deceived." 

Mr.  Van  Hess  continued  to  scrutinize  the  check,  and  his 
face  became  more  and  more  troubled.  Mr.  Vanderbilt,  a 
keen,  cold  man  of  business,  watched  his  senior  closely,  and 
waited  patiently  for  him  to  continue. 

"  That's  not  what  troubles  me :  it  is  the  handwriting  in 
the  body  of  the  check  which  alarms  me." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  whose  handwriting  is  it?"- 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do." 

"You  neither  wrote  nor  signed  this  check?  Then,  sir, 
IT  is  A  FORGERY!" 

"I  fear  it  is.  Surely,  surely  George  Bailey  could  not 
have  committed  so  clumsy  a  crime  as  this.  He  must  have 
known  that  it  would  be  detected." 


28  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

"Not  so  clumsy,  after  all,  Mr.  Van  Hess;  for  during  my 
absence  he  had  charge  of  the  finances,  and  I  was  not  ex- 
pected to  return  until  May  next.  He  had  ample  time  to 
cover  up  a  paltry  sum  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars;  and  perhaps 
he  may  have  thought  that  my  lung  trouble  was  fatal,  and  that 
he  might  remain  permanently  in  charge  of  the  finances." 

Mr.  Van  Hess  was  greatly  distressed.  He  was  sorry  for 
Bailey  himself ;  but  for  his  daughter,  as  the  affianced  of  a 
forger,  and  for  the  social  position  of  this  daughter  and  him- 
self, he  was  in  a  state  of  agony.  He  had  little  doubt  that 
Bailey,  taking  advantage  of  his  position,  and  of  his  partner's 
absence,  had  been  tempted  to  pay  off  an  old  debt  previous 
to  his  marriage  with  Grace.  He  was  always  suspicious  of  a 
man  who  did  not  make  strong  professions  of  piety.  With 
all  his  narrow  bigotry,  Mr.  Van  Hess  was  a  moral,  upright 
man,  and  he  could  not  lie  against  the  truth. 

"  Mr.  Vanderbilt,  I  recognized  Bailey's  handwriting  in  a 
moment.  Yet  I  can  hardly  believe  in  his  guilt.  Some  ex- 
pert may  have  imitated  his  writing.  Perhaps  Mr.  Wilde 
never  received  the  money.  We  ought  not  to  condemn  him 
too  hastily." 

"I  hope  he  is  innocent,"  said  Mr.  Vanderbilt;  "but  we 
can  easily  ascertain.  We  can  learn  if  Mr.  Wilde  has  re- 
ceived the  money ;  if  Bailey  owed  him  fifteen  hundred  dol- 
lars ;  and  how  he,  Wilde,  received  the  check." 

"There  is  no  necessity  for  haste,"  pleaded  Mr.  Van  Hess; 
"  hitherto  we  have  found  the  young  man  honest,  and  there 
may  be  a  mistake.  I  trust  that  the  matter  will  come  out  all 
right  for  him." 

The  partners  discussed  the  matter  pro  and  con  all  the 
afternoon ;  and  then  agreed  to  request  an  interview  with 
Mr.  William  Wilde,  and  to  examine  Bailey  on  the  following 
morning. 

A  messenger  was  sent  with  a  note  requesting  Mr.  Wilde, 
if  convenient,  to  call  at  the  counting-house  of  Van  Hess  «fc 
Co.  between  twelve  and  one  o'clock.  George  Bailey  was 
informed  by  Timothy  Quin  that  he  was  wanted  in  the  inner 
office.  Mr.  Van  Hess  handed  Bailey  the  check  to  read,  and 
as  he  read  he  turned  first  scarlet  and  then  deadly  pale. 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  29 

"Mr.  Bailey,  whose  handwriting  is  that?"  asked  Mr.Van- 
dcrbilt. 

"It  looks  like  mine  and  Mr.  Van  Iless's ;  but  —  but  I 
never  wrote  it.  This  is  a,  forgery  /" 

"  So  we  thought,  Mr.  Bailey,"  replied  Mr.  Vanderbilt,  in 
a  slight  tone  of  irony. 

"Bailey,"  asked  Mr.  Van  Hess,  "did  you  owe  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Wilde  fifteen  hundred  dollars  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  did." 

Mr.  Vanderbilt,  at  this  confession,  gave  Mr.  Van  Hess  a 
knowing  look,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  told  you  so."  Poor 
Mr.  Van  Hess  was  bewildered  and  dumfounded. 

"  Mr.  Bailey,  you  had  charge  of  the  financial  affairs  of 
the  house  during  my  absence  in  the  South.  Were  you  not 
under  the  impression  that  I  would  not  return  before  May  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Vandcrbilt. 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  replied  Bailey,  who  had  no  more 
idea  of  prevaricating  than  he  had  of  flying  out  of  the  win- 
dow. "  But,  gentlemen,  surely,  surely  you  do  not  suspect 
me  of  forging  this  check?"  This  was  uttered  by  Bailey  in 
a  tone  of  astonishment,  as  the  idea  slowly  entered  his  miud 
that  he  was  suspected  by  both  the  partners. 

"  The  handwriting  is  yonrs — at  least,  like  yours,  by  your 
own  confession  ;  and  you  admit  that  you  owed  this  amount 
— this  exact  amount — to  "William  Wilde.  To  be  frank  with 
you,  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  Mr.  Vanderbilt,  "  we  are  forced  to 
think,  after  deliberate  consideration,  that  you  forged  this 
check.  We  may,  however,  be  mistaken,  and  I  trust  that 
you  will  be  able  to  prove  your  innocence." 

"  Prove  my  innocence !"  said  Bailey,  in  a  tone  of  indig- 
nation and  surprise.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say,  gentlemen, 
that  you  suspect  me  of  this  clumsy  crime,  which  was  sure 
to  be  detected?"  The  thought  of  "doctoring"  the  ac- 
counts, to  cover  his  presumed  guilt,  never  once  entered 
Bailey's  mind.  "  Mr.  Van  Hess,  do  you  think  that  I  could 
commit  such  a  crime?" 

"The  matter  looks  serious,  Bailey ;  and  I  don't  know 
what  to  think,"  replied  Mr.  Van  Hess,  in  a  tone  of  deep 
distress. 


30  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Mr.  Van  Hess  motioned  Mr.  Vanderbilt  to  come  over  to 
the  window,  and  whispered  in  bis  ear,  "  Mr.  Vanderbilt,  I 
fear  he  is  guilty.  Did  you  notice  his  face  change  from 
scarlet  to  white  the  moment  he  looked  at  the  check  ?  The 
amount,  to  me,  is  a  trifle ;  but  Bailey  is  engaged  to  my 
daughter,  and  the  scandal  will  kill  her.  I  will  see  that  you 
are  no  loser.  If  he  confesses  to  the  crime,  will  you  agree 
to  let  him  escape  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  to  condone  a  crime  like  this.  He 
was  trusted,  esteemed,  promoted ;  and  to  take  advantage 
of  my  absence  and  your  kindness  and  confidence  was  in- 
comparably mean  as  well  as  criminal.  But,  my  old  friend, 
to  save  your  daughter's  name  from  the  tongue  of  scandal, 
I  will  agree  not  to  prosecute,  provided  he  makes  a  clean 
breast  of  it." 

"  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  Mr.  Vanderbilt,  approaching  him,  "  Mr. 
Van  Hess  and  I  have  agreed,  for  several  reasons,  not  to 
prosecute  you,  provided  you  confess  your  crime  and  make 
restitution  to  the  best  of  your  ability.  Otherwise,  the  law 
must  take  its  course." 

"Confess!  Confess  what?  That  I  committed  a  forge- 
ry for  the  purpose  of  robbing  my  benefactor  ?  That  I 
committed  a  shallow  crime  like  this?  That  I  was  a  fool  as 
well  as  a  knave?  Confess  a  lie  ?  Never,  sir!  never!  You 
and  Mr.  Van  Hess  ought  to  know  me  better." 

"Bailey,  for  my  daughter's  sake,  for  my  sake,  for  your 
mother's  sake,  if  not  for  your  own  sake,  confess,  and  make 
all  the  restitution  you  can ;  and  then  you  may  commence 
the  world  anew  in  some  other  State  or  country." 

"Sir,"  replied  Bailey,  with  great  dignity,  "you  have  had 
my  answer.  I  cannot  confess  to  a  crime  which  I  never 
committed.  You  ought  to  know,  gentlemen,  that  the  same 
hand  which  forged  the  signature  of  Jacob  Van  Hess  could 
as  easily  forge  the  handwriting  of  George  Bailey." 

" True,  Mr.  Bailey,  we  admit  that;  but  whose  interest 
was  it  to  pay  a  debt  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars  to  William 
Wilde  ?  You  admit  the  debt." 

"Bailey,"  pleaded  Mr.  Van  Hess,  "  we  have  sent  for  Mr. 
Wilde.  He  will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes.  If  you  did  this 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  31 

deed,  confess  it  before  he  arrives ;  for  if  he  state  that  he 
has  been  paid  by  means  of  this  false  check,  nothing  can 
save  you.  There  is  just  one  chance  for  you — and  that,  I 
fear,  is  but  one  chance  in  a  thousand — and  that  is,  that  Mr. 
"\Vilde  did  not  receive  the  money." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Bailey,  "  I  am  really  astonished  at 
you.  To  think  that  I  could  possibly  commit  such  a 
crime !" 

"  All  criminals  talk  this  way,"  said  Vanderbilt,  in  a  cold 
tone  of  voice.  "  I  do  not  say  that  you  are  a  criminal ;  the 
law  will  decide  that  point." 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Vanderbilt,"  replied  Bailey,  "  let  the 
law  take  its  course.  '  The  law  is  the  friend  of  the  accused.' 
I'll  prove  my  innocence  in  a  court  of  justice.  Abscond!" 
continued  Bailey,  "  why,  to  abscond  is  to  admit  the  crime." 

"  George  Bailey,"  pleaded  Mr.  Van  Hess  once  more,  "my 
partner  and  I  are  willing  to  let  you  go,  provided  you  con- 
fess. Confess,  and  I  shall  make  good  my  partner's  loss." 

"  Mr.  Van  Hess,"  said  Bailey,  "  I  swear  before  my  Crea- 
tor, by  the  bones  of  my  dead  father,  by  the  honor  of  my 
widowed  mother,  that  I  have  never  seen  that  check  until 
called  into  this  office  this  morning !  Gentlemen,  gentlemen, 
I  am  innocent — indeed,  I  am  innocent !" 

Jacob  Van  Hess  possessed  the  characteristic  of  narrow  and 
bigoted  minds — an  immense  fund  of  stubborn  tenacity.  His 
Dutch  blood  was  now  up,  and  he  was  resolved  to  make  Bai- 
ley confess  or  take  the  consequences. 

"  Bailey,  are  you  mad  ?"  said  Van  Hess.  "  You  have  ad- 
mitted the  debt  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  The  handwrit- 
ing can  be  sworn  to  by  a  dozen  clerks  in  this  house.  Be 
warned  in  time  !" 

"  My  mind,  sir,  is  made  up.  I  shall  either  be  acquitted 
or  convicted  in  a  court  of  justice.  I  shall  not  abscond ;  for 
life  and  liberty,  with  such  a  stain  on  my  character,  are  not 
worth  the  possession." 

"  Come,  Bailey,"  said  Mr.  Vanderbilt,  "  you  have  confess- 
ed enough  already — provided  Mr.  Wilde  has  received  the 
money — to  send  you  to  State-prison.  You  owed  money; 
it  was  paid  for  by  means  of  this  forged  check.  Have  you 


32  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

a  receipt  ?  But,  of  course,  the  question  is  useless ;  the  re- 
ceipt would  be  destroyed." 

By  some  singular  fatality  Bailey  involuntarily  put  his 
hand  into  the  pocket  of  his  business-coat — a  light  surnracr- 
coat,  worn  only  in  the  counting-house — and  drew  out  a  pa- 
per. "Why  he  did  so,  or  what  prompted  him  to  perform 
this  mechanical  action,  he  could  never  tell.  It  seemed  as  if, 
when  the  misfortune  of  the  check  was  brought  home  to 
him,  every  other  misfortune  must  follow  in  its  track.  He 
opened  the  paper,  and,  as  his  eyes  took  in  its  meaning,  they 
almost  started  from  their  sockets  with  amazement  and  ter- 
ror. Bailey  was  a  brave  man,  as  we  have  already  seen,  but 
this  was  too  much  for  him.  He  turned  deadly  pale;  his 
lips  were  drawn  back  until  the  exposure  of  his  white  teeth 
imparted  a  ghastly  expression  to  his  countenance ;  his  face 
and  form  assumed  a  look  of  premature  age,  as  if  some  in- 
visible power  had  suddenly  dried  up  the  sap  of  his  youth. 
Never  again  could  George  Bailey  wear  the  gay  and  joyous 
look  of  the  young  and  the  light-hearted.  He  threw  himself 
down  on  the  nearest  seat,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  wept  silently.  It  was  a  pitiable  sight  to  see  this  young 
Titan  bowed  to  the  earth  beneath  such  a  load  of  misery. 
The  great  round  tears  slowly  trickled  through  the  fingers 
that  hid  his  eyes.  "O  God!  my  God!"  he  murmured,  in 
a  voice  scarcely  audible,  "  why  hast  thou  permitted  this  ? 
I  am  lost,  lost,  lost — ruined!  Oh,  my  poor  mother!  oh, 
my  poor  mother!  What  is  to  become  of  her?" 

The  two  partners  looked  at  Bailey  and  pitied  his  misery. 
There  was  now  no  doubt  of  his  guilt,  for  the  paper  which 
lie  had  taken  out  of  his  pocket  was  the  fatal  receipt. 

"  Warrcnton,  Wilclo  &  Co.,  Wall  Street, 

'•  New  York,  November  20th,  18 — . 

"Received  from  George  Bailey  the  sum  of  Fifteen  Hun- 
dred Dollars  ($1500),  the  amount  in  full  for  all  claims  against 
the  estate  of  his  late  father.  WILLIAM  AViLDE." 

"  Bailey,  I  have,  as  I  told  you,  sent  a  messenger  to  re- 
quest Mr.  Wilde  to  come  round  to  our  office,"  said  Mr.  Van 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  33 

Hess ;  "  but  if  you  will  confess,  now  that  the  very  receipt 
has  been  found  on  your  person,  it  is  not  yet  too  late.  I  will 
make  some  business  excuse  to  send  Mr.  Wilde  away.  For 
my  daughter's  sake,  for  your  mother's  sake,  confess,  and 
you  may  go  away  unharmed." 

In  a  broken  tone,  and  with  great  humility,  George  Bailey 
replied,  "  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  kindness  and  humanity ; 
but  I  cannot  confess  to  what  I  never  did." 

"  Bailey,  remember  that  the  penalty  is  ten  years'  hard 
labor  in  State-prison.  I  would  save  you,  if  you  would  let 
me ;  but,  if  you  will  not  confess,  the  law  must  take  its 
course." 

"  Mr.  Van  Hess,  I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart ;  but,  I  repeat,  I  cannot,  will  not  confess.  What  is 
liberty  to  me  with  the  stain  of  this  great  crime  on  my 
character  ?  Unless  I  am  cleared,  I  prefer  to  be  imprisoned." 

Mr.  William  Wilde,  of  the  banking-house  of  Warrenton, 
WTilde  &  Co.,  entered  the  office.  He  was  a  handsome,  vig- 
orous gentleman,  about  fifty -five  years  of  age.  His  hair 
and  beard,  which  were  long,  gray,  and  silky,  gave  him  the 
appearance  of  being  older  than  lie  really  was.  His  eye 
was  clear  and  shrewd,  his  form  erect,  and  his  movements 
energetic. 

Mr.  Vanderbilt  handed  him  the  forged  check  and  the 
receipt,  and  asked  him  if  lie  remembered  the  person  who 
had  paid  him. 

"  Very  well,  indeed.  It  was  just  before  the  closing  of 
the  bank.  I  was  in  the  inner  office,  writing.  It  was  grow- 
ing dark,  and  I  was  thinking  of  lighting  the  gas,  when  a 
man  entered  somewhat  hastily  and  said,  '  Mr.  Wilde,  I  am 
George  Bailey,  head -clerk  with  Van  Hess  &  Co.,  and  I 
have  called  to  pay  the  last  instalment  of  the  debt  which 
my  father  owed  you.'  He  handed  me  a  check  for  fifteen 
hundred  dollars — the  very  check  now  in  my  hand — and  I 
gave  him  this  receipt." 

Mr.  Van  Hess  asked,  "Did  you  notice  the  man's  appear- 
ance ?" 

"  As  I  told  you  before,  it  was  growing  dark,  and  there- 
fore I  could  not  swear  to  the  man's  face." 


34  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Did  you  notice  anything  peculiar  about  the  man  ?'' 
asked  Mr.  Vanderbilt. 

"  I  certainly  noticed  a  subdued  excitement  in  his  tone  of 
voice,  and  a  rapidity  of  utterance,  like  one  who  has  com- 
mitted his  speech  to  memory.  But  I  was  struck  with  as- 
tonishment that  the  head-clerk  of  your  house  should  walk 
nearly  half  a  mile,  on  a  raw,  chilly  day  in  November,  without 
an  overcoat,  and  with  nothing  on  him  heavier  than  a  light 
summer  business-coat.  I  observed,  too,  that  though  the  words 
were  correct,  the  tone  of  voice  was  not  that  of  a  gentleman." 

George  was  an  attentive  listener  to  Mr.  Wilde's  statement. 
Mr.  Van  Hess  turned  to  Mr.  Wilde,  and  then  pointing  to 
Bailey,  asked, 

"  Is  that  the  man  who  gave  you  the  check,  and  to  whom 
you  handed  the  receipt  ?" 

Mr.  Wilde  carefully  scanned  George  Bailey  from  head  to 
foot.  "  That  is  the  coat,  certainly.  The  man  was  about  his 
height ;  but  I  don't  think  that  is  the  face.  It  seems  to  me 
(as  well  as  I  can  remember)  that  the  face  of  the  man  who 
paid  me  was  older  and  coarser.  I  could  swear  to  the  coat ; 
and  even  that  \vould  hardly  be  safe,  for  doubtless  there  are 
thousands  of  coats  of  the  same  cut  and  material." 

"  Mr.  Wilde,"  said  Bailey,  "  may  I  ask  you  one  or  two 
questions  ?" 

"  Certainly,  sir :  I  will  answer  them  as  far  as  I  am  able." 

"  This  is  the  second  of  December.  It  is  now  nearly  two 
•weeks  since  some  person  presented  you  this  check  and  re- 
ceived your  receipt.  Can  you  remember  the  voice  of  the 
man  who  spoke  to  you  ?  These  gentlemen  know  that  I  am 
not  now  disguising  my  voice.  Does  my  voice  resemble  the 
voice  of  that  man  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  Your  voice  is  clear  and  distinct ;  his 
was  thick,  rough,  and,  if  I  may  use  the  word,  muffled.  I 
remember  that  I  noticed  at  the  time  the  rapidity  of  his 
utterance." 

"  Mr.  Wilde,  you  noticed  wThat  you  considered  an  attempt 
on  the  part  of  this  person  to  disguise  his  tone ;  in  your 
opinion,  could  my  voice  be  made  to  sound  like  that  of  the 
man  who  gave  you  the  check  on  that  fatal  da\  ?" 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  35 

"No, sir;  not  unless  you  are  an  admirable  mimic." 

"  My  friends  here,  and  also  at  home,  know  that  my  strong 
individuality  has  always  prevented  my  imitating  anything. 
Mr-,  Wilde,  you  have  twice  unconsciously  addressed  me  with 
the  epithet,  sir :  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  if  you  could  have 
so  addressed  the  man  who  personated  me  in  your  office  ?" 

"I  think  not;  for  though  the  man  was  dressed  as  you 
are  now,  had  hair  and  mustache  like  you,  I  could  not  help 
thinking  at  the  time  that  he  was  not  a  gentleman,  as — ex- 
cuse the  compliment — you  evidently  are." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Wilde.  One  question  more:  Did  you 
ever  press  me  to  pay  you  that  debt  of  fifteen  hundred 
dollars?" 

"As  long  as  you  regularly  paid  the  interest  I  was  satis- 
fied. I  never  asked  payment." 

Mr.  William  Wilde  retired  without  asking  a  single  ques- 
tion concerning  the  check,  for  he  was  a  thorough  gentleman, 
and,  as  such,  seemed  to  manifest  no  interest  in  the  private 
affairs  of  a  mercantile  firm.  He  saw  that  there  was  some- 
thing wrong,  and  that  the  head-clerk  was  suspected,  perhaps, 
of  forgery,  but  it  was  none  of  his  business,  and  so  he  bowed 
himself  out  of  the  counting-house. 

After  the  first  shock,  and  especially  after  the  copious  flow 
of  tears,  all  Bailey's  courage  and  clear  common-sense  returned. 
He  realized  the  diabolic  cunning  of  the  plot,  the  masterly 
ability  with  which  it  was  concocted,  and  the  almost  impos- 
sibility of  proving  his  innocence.  Nevertheless,  like  a  strong 
swimmer  against  wind  and  wave  and  tide,  he  would  struggle 
for  life  while  life  lasted. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Bailey,  "  this  matter  is  now  very  clear 
to  my  mind.  Some  villain,  who  has  learned  to  imitate  my 
handwriting,  and  yours  too,  Mr.  Van  Hess,  has  forged  this 
check  and  given  it  to  Mr.  Wilde,  and  received  his  receipt. 
The  man  who  committed  this  crime  belongs  to  your  house  ; 
he  is  one  of  the  fifteen  clerks  employed  by  your  firm.  This 
scoundrel  wore  my  business -coat,  and  at  the  proper  time 
placed  the  receipt  in  my  pocket.  The  daze  caused  by  the 
first  shock  of  the  calamity  is  over.  Perhaps  my  counsel 
will  be  able  to  sift  it  all  out  and  detect  the  wily  forger. 


36  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

That  is  my  only  chance.  I  admit  that,  as  I  now  sec  it,  the 
evidence  is  greatly  against  me.  But  I  must  be  acquitted, 
I  repeat,  or  convicted  in  a  court  of  justice.  To  fly  is  a  con- 
fession of  guilt,  and  that  is  worse  than  State-prison.  I  can 
scarcely  blame  you  for  thinking  me  guilty.  Still,  Mr.  Van 
Hess,  who  has  known  me  and  my  family  so  long,  should,  I 
think,  have  had  more  confidence  in  my  integrity.  I  now 
surrender  myself  for  trial,  in  the  hope  that  I  may  receive 
that  justice  which  I  can  scarcely  blame  you  for  denying 
me." 

Had  George  Bailey  carried  a  pious  book  in  his  pocket, 
read  a  religious  newspaper  during  lunch-hour,  or  condemn- 
ed the  poor  workmen  for  drinking  liquor  or  using  tobac- 
co, Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess  could  never  have  been  brought  to 
believe  in  his  guilt.  Had  Bailey  paraded  the  religion  of 
Christ,  and  ranted  about  it  from  the  lip  out,  without  one 
scintilla  of  it  in  his  heart,  this  night  he  would  not  have 
slept  a  prisoner  in  the  Tombs. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"Alas!  the  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

Hath  naught  to  dread  from  outward  blow : 
Who  falls  from  all  he  knows  of  bliss 
Cares  little  into  what  abyss." — MOORE. 

MRS.  BAILEY  sold  her  little  homestead  for  about  two- 
thirds  of  its  value,  for  the  purpose  of  raising  money  with 
which  to  employ  able  counsel  to  defend  her  son,  and  to 
liquidate  the  debt  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars  to  William 
AVildc,  of  the  house  of  Warrenton,  Wilde  <fc  Co.  Van  Hess 
&  Co.  sustained  no  loss  on  account  of  the  forged  check. 

Day  after  day  the  poor  delicate  mother  visited  her  son 
in  his  cell,  consoled  him,  comforted  him,  and  endeavored, 
with  her  grand  maternal  love,  to  induce  him  to  put  his 
trust  in  the  goodness,  mercy,  and  justice  of  the  Father  who 
does  all  things  for  the  best.  From  the  prison  cell  she  went 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  37 

to  the  lawyers  who  were  engaged  to  defend  him ;  from  the 
law-offices  she  went  to  the  teachers,  professors,  and  minis- 
ters who  had  known  her  boy  from  childhood,  for  testimo- 
nials as  to  conduct  and  character ;  and  from  the  residences 
of  these  people  she  went  to  the  business  men  who  had 
known  him  during  the  past  four  years,  for  letters  recom- 
mending him  for  honesty  and  integrity.  The  energy  of 
this  weak,  fragile  lady  was  something  wonderful.  She  left 
no  stone  unturned  to  save  him  from  his  impending  fate. 
She  employed  detectives,  by  advice  of  her  counsel,  to  fol- 
low the  clerks  employed  by  Van  Hess  &  Co.,  and  to  dis- 
cover, if  possible,  the  criminal  who  had  perpetrated  the 
forgery. 

The  day  of  trial  came  at  last.  Experts  in  penmanship 
swore  that  the  writing  in  the  body  of  the  forged  check 
was,  to  the  best  of  their  belief,  the  handwriting  of  the  ac- 
cused. Mr.  "William  Wilde  gave  his  evidence,  the  substance 
of  which  has  been  already  stated.  The  business-coat  and 
the  debt  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars  were  very  damaging. 
The  finding  of  the  receipt  in  the  presence  of  the  two  part- 
ners was  testified  to.  The  district-attorney  dwelt  upon  the 
motive  and  the  opportunity ;  that  opportunity  being  the 
absence  of  the  junior  partner  in  the  South.  Against  all 
this  Bailey's  counsel  could  only  insinuate,  without  a  parti- 
cle of  proof,  that  some  enemy  in  the  counting-house  had 
committed  the  forgery  for  the  purpose  of  ruining  the  pros- 
perous head-clerk.  But  when  asked  for  the  name  of  a  sin- 
gle enemy,  they  had  none  to  give.  They  used  Mr.  Wilde's 
evidence  concerning  the  man  who  presented  the  check  with 
great  skill.  They  presented  at  least  a  score  of  recommen- 
dations from  the  best  and  purest  men  of  the  city ;  but  all 
to  no  purpose.  The  evidence  of  guilt  was  too  clear  to  the 
minds  of  the  jury ;  and  after  retiring  for  ten  minutes  they 
brought  in  a  verdict  of  guilty.  The  judge  passed  sentence 
in  the  following  words : 

"  George  Bailey,  you  have  had  a  fair  and  impartial  trial 
before  an  intelligent  jury  of  your  countrymen,  and  have 
been  convicted  of  robbing  your  employer  under  circum- 
stances the  most  aggravating.  You  are  a  man  of  more 


38  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

than  ordinary  education,  culture,  and  refinement;  you  Lave 
been  tLe  trusted  clerk,  the  almost  adopted  son,  of  tLe  Lead 
of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  respectable  firms  in  the  city, 
and  Lence  for  you  tLere  was  no  possible  excuse.  About  to 
become  a  partner  in  tLe  Louse,  with  prospects  tLe  bright- 
est,  in  order  to  pay  off  a  paltry  debt  you  take  advantage  of 
tLe  absence  of  tLe  junior  partner,  and,  relying  on  tLe  con- 
fidence of  tLe  senior,  you  deliberately  commit  tLe  crime 
of  forgery.  NotwitLstanding  tLat  experts  Lave  declared 
tLe  writing  to  be  yours,  your  own  admission  when  the 
forged  cLeck  was  first  sLown  to  you,  and  notwithstanding 
tLat  tLe  receipt  for  the  fifteen  hundred  dollars  was  found 
on  your  person,  you  have  persisted  in  pleading  not  guilty. 
In  the  teeth  of  evidence  the  most  convincing,  you  Lave 
steadily  insisted  on  your  innocence.  No  jury,  no  matter 
what  their  sympathies  might  have  been,  could  have  done 
otherwise  than  bring  in  a  verdict  of  guilty.  In  that  ver- 
dict I  cordially  concur.  You  have  been  defended  by  able 
counsel.  The  highest  testimonials  as  to  your  previous 
good  character  were  received  and  duly  weighed.  The  wit- 
nesses against  you  were  as  tender  as  the  nature  of  tLeir 
oatLs  would  permit.  I  can  see  nothing  in  the  testimony 
to  mitigate,  but  on  the  contrary  a  great  deal  to  aggravate, 
your  crime.  I,  therefore,  sentence  you  to  confinement  at 
hard  labor  in  the  State-prison  for  the  period  of  ten  years. 
This  is  the  highest  punishment  that  the  law  allows,  and  in 
my  opinion  you  deserve  it." 

George  Bailey  was  quickly  removed  to  his  cell.  He  sat 
on  the  side  of  his  cot-bed,  his  eyes  gazing  away  into  vacan- 
cy :  his  mother  sat  on  the  solitary  wooden  chair  beside 
him.  Their  hands  were  clasped,  but  neither  uttered  a 
word.  Sorrow,  anxiety,  and  confinement  had  driven  the 
ruddy  glow  from  the  young  man's  face,  never  again  to  re- 
turn to  it.  There  was  a  sort  of  sad  relief,  now  that  anxiety 
was  at  an  end,  and  that  the  worst  had  come.  Mrs.  Bailey 
squeezed  his  hand  and  wept  silently.  It  was  a  blessing  that 
the  tears  came  to  soften  her  nameless  grief. 

At  length  she  said,  "  George,  darling,  do  not  give  way  to 
despair.  God  is  good  and  just ;  and  your  innocence  will 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  39 

yet  be  proved  before  the  world.  I  will  go  to  the  governor, 
and  on  my  bended  knees  obtain  your  pardon." 

"  Pardon,  mother  ?  That  means  that  I  have  committed 
a  crime.  No,  no,  no  !  I  must  be  proved  an  innocent  man  ; 
I  must  be  released  from  an  unjust  imprisonment — released, 
not  pardoned." 

"  Released,  then — you  must  be  released.  Your  father's 
friends  and  my  own  will  work  day  and  night  until  you  are 
released,  my  son." 

George  seized  both  his  mother's  hands  and  kissed  her  on 
the  forehead.  His  voice  trembled  as  he  said,  "  Mother,  if 
it  were  not  for  you  I  could  bear  this  unjust  punishment ; 
but  the  thought  of  you  drives  me  nearly  mad.  What  will 
become  of  you  during  these  long,  weary  ten  years?  The 
punishment  is  more  than  doubled,  for  you  receive  by  far 
the  greater  part  of  it.  Oh,  God !  I  could  bear  all,  being 
young  and  innocent,  but  my  mother,  my  mother!"  and  the 
young  man  ran  his  hands  through  his  hair  with  a  move- 
ment of  despair. 

"  George,  George  !  you  break  my  heart  by  your  despair ! 
Be  humble  and  trust  in  God,  and  be  will  prove  your  inno- 
cence." 

"  Ah  !  if  I  alone  were  concerned,  I  could  wait,  wait — ay, 
wait  thirty  years — until  the  foul,  dark  plot  that  has  ruined 
me  comes  to  light;  for  God  were  not  a  God  of  justice  if  he 
permitted  this  crime  to  go  unpunished.  Mother,  it  is  worse 
than  murder ;  for  it  is  disgrace,  and  the  loss  of  all  that  made 
life  and  liberty  dear  to  me.  It  is  a  double  murder,  for  it 
destroys  you  as  well  as  me." 

"  George,  darling,  don't  think  of  these  things.  You  will 
soon  be  released,  and  then  we  shall  leave  New  York,  and  go 
away  to  some  strange  city,  where  you  can  begin  life  anew." 

Bailey  had  relapsed  into  a  state  of  abstraction,  and  after 
a  long  pause  he  said, 

"  Mother,  are  you  still  of  the  opinion  that  Myron  Finch 
was  the  cunning  devil  who  planned  and  compassed  my  de- 
struction ?" 

"  I  am,  most  assuredly.  I  warned  you  against  him  at  the 
very  beginning.  I  well  remember  being  very  much  annoy- 


40  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

cd  at  your  mentioning  family  affairs  to  him  the  first  even- 
ing he  called  at  our  house.  You  saw  that  I  instinctively 
feared  and  disliked  him,  as  though  he  were  a  poisonous 
reptile." 

"The  proof,  mother?  "What  proof  have  you  beyond 
this  instinct  ?" 

"  Remember  Mr.  Wilde's  testimony.  That  man  with  the 
coarse,  thick  voice — that  man  about  your  height — that  man 
with  the  dark  hair  and  mustache  was  Timothy  Quin.  The 
man  who  forged  the  check  and  sent  him  on  his  criminal 
errand  was  Myron  Finch.  Proof !  I  need  no  other  proof 
than  my  mother's  heart.  I  watched  every  witness  closely." 

Still,  Bailey  could  not  believe  that  the  man  whom  he 
had  befriended,  the  man  whom  he  had  made  a  companion, 
could  concoct  and  execute  so  foul  an  act  of  fraud  and 
treachery ;  and  yet  there  were  circumstances  that  pointed 
to  Myron  Finch  as  the  perpetrator  of  the  crime.  lie  alone, 
of  all  the  employes  in  the  firm,  knew  of  the  debt  of  fifteen 
hundred  dollars,  and  he  remembered  the  peculiar  intimacy 
between  him  and  Quin.  But  the  proof  was  wanting,  and 
Bailey  was  too  just  a  man  to  condemn  another  on  evidence 
so  slight.  He  took  his  mother's  feminine  instinct  for  what 
it  was  worth,  and  quietly  assumed  that  her  mind  had  been 
always  prejudiced  against  Finch. 

After  another  long  pause — for  great  grief,  like  great  hap- 
piness, is  apt  to  engender  silence — Bailey  asked,  not  with- 
out reluctance  and  embarrassment, 

"  Mother,  have  you  heard  anything  of  Miss  Van  Hess  ? 
Has  she  ever  called  on  you  ?  She  has  never  sent  me  a 
single  syllable  in  reply  to  my  note.  Does  she  believe  me 
guilty,  or  has  her  father  put  her  under  restraint  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Bailey ;  "  I  have  never 
seen  her,  never  heard  from  her.  Her  father  evidently  be- 
lieves that  you  committed  forgery,  and  doubtless  he  has 
imparted  his  own  belief  to  his  daughter.  It  can  hardly  be 
otherwise." 

"  This  indifference  to  my  fate  relieves  my  mind  of  half 
its  trouble.  Had  she  believed  in  iny  innocence  like  you, 
had  she  sympathized  with  me  in  my  misfortune,  the 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  41 

thought  of  her  love  and  her  misery,  added  to  my  anxiety 
about  you,  would  have  driven  me  crazy — I  could  not  have 
borne  it.  Whatever  feeling  she  had  for  me  will  soon  die, 
if  it  has  not  already  died  out,  under  the  belief  that  I  am  a 
forger  and  a  robber  !" 

This  thought  caused  the  young  man  to  compress  his  lips 
and  clinch  his  hands,  in  an  effort  to  suppress  any  outward 
emotion  which  might  add  aught  to  his  mother's  trouble. 
He  forced  himself  into  a  state  of  mental  calm,  as  he  con- 
tinued, "I  am  sorry,  very  sorry  for  the  misery  she  must 
have  endured.  Her  pride,  which  is  her  principal  character- 
istic, must  have  been  dreadfully  wounded.  But  this  dream 
is  ended !  I  have  you  only,  my  dear  mother,  to  think  of 
now.  You  had  a  great  deal  of  money  to  pay  to  lawyers, 
and  you  had  many  expenses  besides :  how  much  money  have 
you  left  ?  When  the  house  was  sold  you  paid  the  bank  the 
fifteen  hundred  dollars?" 

"  Of  course  I  did.  Had  I  died  of  starvation  the  next  hour 
I  would  have  cancelled  that  debt.  That  man,  Mr.  Van  Hess, 
had  the  indecency  to  offer  to  pay  the  money.  I  indignantly 
refused.  He  begged  me  to  retain  a  portion  of  it.  I  told 
him  that  I  would  not  accept  one  cent  to  save  my  life  :  that, 
had  it  been  necessary,  I  would  have  sold  your  father's  grave 
to  procure  the  money  to  pay  the  bank.  With  all  his  good- 
ness and  piety,  Jacob  Van  Hess  is  a  coarse-minded,  stubborn 
bigot.  Had  his  nature  been  of  a  higher  order,  had  his  mind 
been  comprehensive,  he  would  have  trusted  your  honesty 
and  integrity,  in  spite  of  appearances  against  you.  Mr. 
Wilde,  who  never  saw  you  but  once  before  the  trial,  told 
me  that  in  his  opinion  you  were  innocent  as  the  child  un- 
born. He  promised  me  that  he  would  use  all  his  influence 
to  procure  your  par —  I  mean,  your  release." 

"  Mother,  if  ever  you  see  Mr.  Wilde,  give  him  my  grateful 
thanks,  and  tell  him  that  the  time  will  come  when  my  in- 
nocence will  be  known  to  the  world.  But,  mother,  how 
much  money  have  you  left,  after  paying  all  expenses  ?" 

"  No  matter  about  that,  my  son ;  you  will  soon  be  re- 
leased, and  then  all  will  be  right.  We  shall  go  W'est  and 
be£!'in  the  world  anew." 


42  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Mother,  mother,  my  heart  is  aching  for  you  !  Let  me 
know  the  worst  at  once ;  anything  is  better  than  suspense." 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know,  I  have  just  sixty-five  dollars 
and  fifty-two  cents  remaining." 

Again  Bailey  compressed  his  lips,  and  clinched  his  hands 
until  the  finger-nails  cut  his  palms.  His  face  writhed  with 
suppressed  agony.  No  longer  able  to  contain  himself,  he 
exclaimed,  "  Mother,  mother,  I  shall  go  mad  !  mad  !  mad  ! 
Why  does  God  permit  such  deeds  ?" 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  son  !  do  not  blaspheme !  Trust  in  God, 
and  he  will  deliver  you  at  the  last." 

Mrs.  Bailey  gently  laid  her  thin  white  hand  over  the 
young  man's  mouth,  to  prevent  his  revilings  against  that 
Being  who  did  all  things  for  the  best. 

While  mother  and  son  were  talking  in  this  sad  way,  the 
jailer  announced  that  a  gentleman  desired  to  see  the  prisoner. 
The  announcement  had  scarcely  been  made  when  in  stalked 
Mr.  John  Grady,  the  temperance  lecturer,  and  editor  of  the 
Weekly  Reformer,  the  man  whom  Bailey  had  rescued  from 
the  mob  on  the  City  Hall  steps.  He  seized  George  Bailey 
by  both  his  hands,  and  gave  them  such  a  squeeze  as  ought 
to  have  pressed  the  blood  through  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 
"  And  how  are  ye,  my  boy  ?  Don't  be  cast  down :  we'll 
have  ye  out  in  no  time.  It's  only  a  matter  of  a  few  weeks, 
or  a  few  months  at  the  most.  The  governor  must  pardon 
— I  mean,  release  you."  Grady's  quick  black  eye  had  caught 
the  cloud  on  Bailey's  brow  at  the  mention  of  the  word  par- 
don, and  with  a  presence  of  mind  alike  creditable  to  his  head 
and  his  heart,  had  changed  it  to  the  word  release.  "  I'd  like 
to  see  the  governor  keep  an  innocent  man  in  State-prison  ! 
I'll  go  myself  to  Albany  and  get  you  out.  So  don't  be  cast 
down,  my  brave  boy." 

When  Grady  became  very  much  excited  his  rich  brogue 
predominated,  and  gave  a  heartiness  to  his  words  of  good 
cheer  that  caused  mother  and  son  to  smile  for  the  first 
time  since  their  trouble  commenced. 

"  So,  Mr.  Grady,  notwithstanding  the  weight  of  evidence 
against  me,  and  notwithstanding  my  conviction,  you  believe 
me  an  innocent  man,  do  you?" 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  43 

"  Do  I  ?  You  insult  me  by  the  question  !  Weight  of 
evidence  ?  Weight  of  humbug  !  I  am  an  impulsive  Irish- 
man, and  I  jump  at  a  conclusion  like  a  woman.  I  cannot 
exactly  give  my  reasons,  neither  can  a  woman ;  but  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  we  are  right ;  aren't  we,  Mrs.  Bailey  ?"  and 
he  turned  to  the  lady  and  spoke  to  her  as  if  he  had  known 
lier  all  his  life,  when  the  fact  is  he  had  never  seen  her  until 
this  moment.  "  The  man  who  was  brave  enough  to  face 
an  angry,  howling  mob  of  twenty  or  thirty  men  to  save  a 
perfect  stranger  from  being  murdered,  could  never  be  base 
or  mean  enough  to  commit  a  forgery  or  robbery.  That 
may  not  be  logic,  according  to  the  books,  but  it's  reason, 
according  to  common-sense ;  isn't  it,  Mrs.  Bailey  ?" 

John  Grady  was  a  man  of  strong  animal  magnetism,  of 
extremely  sanguine  temperament,  and  of  hope  so  very  large 
that  the  phrenologists  ought  to  have  marked  him  eight 
plus.  To  the  sad,  weary  mother,  to  the  hopeless,  misera- 
ble son,  there  was  something  really  comforting  and  consol- 
ing in  the  emphasis  and  manner  of  this  man's  words.  It 
lay  not  in  the  words  themselves:  the  consolation  came 
from  the  man  himself. 

"Of  course  you  are  innocent,"  he  continued.  "Let  any 
one  say  anything  to  the  contrary,  and,  provided  that  person 
is  not  an  old  man,  a  small  boy,  or  a  woman,  he  will  feel  the 
weight  of  John  Grady's  carnal  weapon ;"  and  at  the  words 
"carnal  weapon"  he  raised  an  arm  and  clinched  fist  that 
might  well  have  inspired  an  enemy  with  terror.  "Besides, 
were  you  guilty  ten  times  over — or,  to  be  scriptural,  seventy 
times  seven — do  you  think  that  John  Grady  would  ever  for- 
get or  forsake  the  man  who  saved  his  life  ?  I  repeat,  you 
are  innocent ;  but  if  you  were  as  bad  as  I  used  to  be — 
Mrs.  Bailey,  I  beg  pardon ;  but  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have 
been  a  very  wicked  man.  I  was  flogged  several  times  in 
the  army  and  navy ;  I  killed  a  man  once,  but  in  self-de- 
fence. So,  if  my  friend  here  had  committed  murder,  I 
would  stand  by  him  to  the  last." 

Grady,  like  Lord  Byron  and  some  others,  gratified  a  pe- 
culiar kind  of  vanity  by  boasting  of  his  past  wickedness; 
nay,  even  took  a  strange  pleasure  in  exaggerating  his  for- 


44  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

mer  sins.  Now,  the  truth  is,  John  Grady  was  a  warm- 
hearted, honest,  brave  fellow,  whose  gratitude  for  the  slight- 
est favor  was  boundless. 

"  Mr.  Grady,"  said  Bailey,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  "do 
you  truly  believe  in  my  innocence  ?  or  do  you  talk  in  this 
manner  for  the  purpose  of  comforting  me  in  my  misfort- 
une ?" 

"  I  really  and  truly  believe  you  innocent." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Grady ;  you  do  not  know  what  consola- 
tion this  belief  gives  me." 

"  I  not  only  believe  you  an  innocent  man,  but  I  think  I 
know  the  criminal  who  planned  this  diabolical  plot  and  had 
it  executed.  I  am  convinced  it  was  a  scoundrel  whose  name 
begins  with  F." 

Bailey  looked  at  his  mother,  and  his  mother  returned  the 
look  with  a  significant  expression,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Did 
I  not  tell  you  ?" 

""What  proof  have  you,"  asked  Bailey,  "that  Myron 
Finch  committed  this  crime  against  his  best  friend  ?  It  is 
too  horrible  for  belief !" 

"Proof!  proof!  I  have  no  mathematical  proof;  I  have 
only  my  convictions,  as  your  mother  has.  I  put  this  and 
that  together,  and,  woman  fashion,  I  jump  to  a  conclusion. 
Proof !  If  I  had  proof,  do  you  think  that  I  would  not 
have  the  villain  arrested  within  one  hour?  Ah,  Mr.  Bailey, 
the  mischief  of  it  is  that  he  has  covered  his  tracks  so  care- 
fully that  I  can  obtain  no  proof.  Why  in  the  name  of 
Heaven  did  you  not  name  his  name  that  Sunday  when  you 
saved  my  life  from  the  mob  ?  If  you  had  done  so,  you 
would  never  have  fallen  into  this  trouble.  I  knew  the 
scoundrel's  reputation  ;  I  knew  that  he  was  a  black-hearted 
hypocrite ;  but  I  had  never  set  eyes  on  him  until  that  day, 
and  of  course  did  not  know  him  personally.  Had  you  but 
mentioned  his  name  to  me — " 

"  Mr.  Grady,"  said  Bailey,  "  please  tell  me  all  you  know 
about  Myron  Finch ;  for,  if  he  has  done  this  deed  " — and 
at  the  very  thought  of  it  George  Bailey's  eyes  assumed  an 
expression  never  before  seen  in  them,  and  his  jaw  and  face 
became  as  set,  as  rigid  as  iron — "  if  he  has  done  this  deed, 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  45 

the  memory  of  it  would  keep  me  alive  amidst  scenes  of  the 
most  sickening  misery,  not  only  for  ten  years  but  for  fifty, 
lint  I  want  to  be  sure." 

"  What  I  know  of  his  life  prior  to  the  time  that  you  met 
him  is  the  secret  of  another,  and  therefore  sacred.  Suffice 
it  that  I  know  him  to  be  the  most  hard-hearted  villain  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  You  are  aware  that  Mr.  Van  Hess 
is  one  of  the  principal  managers  of  the  society  that  employs 
me  to  advocate  the  cause  of  temperance  among  my  coun- 
trymen, and  hence  I  have  a  slight  acquaintance  with  him, 
but  only  at  the  rooms  of  the  society.  Until  your  arrest  I 
do  not  believe  that  I  had  been  three  times  at  his  place  of 
business,  and  then  only  for  a  minute  or  two.  Latterly  I 
have  tried  to  warn  Mr.  Van  Hess  against  Finch ;  but  the 
old  American-Dutchman  is  as  stubborn  as  a  mule.  He  re- 
plies to  my  statements  of  fact  by  saying  that  Finch  has 
confessed  with  tears  of  repentance  that  these  sins  were  com- 
mitted in  his  time  of  darkness ;  but  now,  since  his  conver- 
sion, he  is  another  man.  Finch  has  the  old  gentleman  se- 
curely in  his  clutches ;  pretends  to  be  a  paragon  of  piety 
and  a  preacher  of  total  abstinence ;  goes  to  church  with 
him  and  Grace  twice  every  Sunday ;  attends  their  weekly 
prayer-meetings ;  calls  himself  a  '  brand  plucked  from  the 
burning;'  has  been  made  head-clerk;  and,  in  a  word,  my 
dear  Bailey,  he  has  just  shoved  you,  by  means  of  a  forged 
check,  out  of  your  shoes,  and  stepped  into  them  himself. 
It  will  be  my  business  to  ferret  this  out ;  for  among  my 
many  employments  I  was  once  a  detective  on  the  Dublin 
force.  I  would  not  annoy  you  now  with  this  information, 
only  for  the  hope  I  have  that  it  may  be  a  relief  to  both  of 
you  to  know  that  I  shall  follow  this  matter  up  until  Finch 
is  detected  and  convicted,  and  you  are  released  from  unjust 
imprisonment." 

Bailey  and  his  mother  listened  attentively  to  all  that 
Grady  had  said.  The  former,  with  a  concentrated  look  of 
wrath  and  a  movement  of  despair,  exclaimed, 

"  Dotard  !  Fool !  Mother,  forgive  me !  You  were 
right.  You  knew  this  man  by  instinct,  while  I,  relying  on 
my  superior  judgment,  have  proved  myself  the  veriest  sim- 


46  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

pleton  that  ever  breathed.  I  see  it  all.  I  told  Finch  about 
the  debt  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars  to  William  Wilde.  I 
remember  what  a  remarkable  penman  the  villain  is.  It  was 
one  of  the  points  on  which  I  recommended  him  to  Mr.  Van 
Hess.  I  remember  wondering  at  his  intimacy  with  Quin. 
I  found  them  one  evening  in  the  inner  office  long  after 
all  the  other  employes  had  left.  He  had  waited  until  he 
had  heard  that  Mr.  Vanderbilt  was  coming  home.  He 
took  care  to  commit  the  act  at  the  fittest  time.  Qnin  is 
dark-complexioned  like  me,  and  about  my  height.  When 
all  was  ready,  he  sent  this  wretch  to  personate  me  during 
the  uncertain  light  of  a  winter's  afternoon.  Oh!  oh!  oh  ! 
this  is  too  horrible !" 

Until  now  George  Bailey  had  resisted  all  his  mother's 
attempts  to  show  that  it  was  Finch,  and  no  one  else,  who 
had  forged  the  check;  but  in  the  light  of  John  Grady's 
statement,  and  of  his  own  memory  of  facts,  the  conviction 
was  irresistible  that  Myron  Finch  and  Timothy  Quin  had 
wrought  his  ruin.  He  became  calm,  stern,  fearful  to  look 
at;  he  became  the  very  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of  re- 
venge. There  was  no  more  groaning ;  tears  could  never 
again  come  to  those  eyes.  His  mother  seemed  to  know  his 
thoughts,  and  they  filled  her  heart  with  a  vague  terror. 

"  My  son — my  dear,  dear  son  !"  she  said,  as  she  took  one 
of  his  strong  hands  in  both  of  hers  and  fondly  stroked  and 
caressed  it ;  "  be  patient ;  trust  in  the  All-Wise,  who  does 
everything  for  the  best.  Do  not  give  way  to  vindictive 
feelings ;  do  not  let  them  destroy  your  better  nature :  what 
is  the  loss  of  reputation  compared  to  the  loss  of  character? 
The  leaves  may  be  blown  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  but 
while  the  roots  are  sound  the  tree  will  live  and  bring  forth 
fruit.  My  son,  my  son !  this  storm  has  only  blown  away 
the  leaves  of  reputation ;  take  care  that  you  keep  the  roots 
of  character  untouched  by  the  viler  passions;  and  revenge 
is  among  the  vilest  of  them." 

But  while  his  mother  was  weeping  and  pleading,  and  try- 
ing to  save  what  was  dearer  to  her  than  liberty  or  life — 
her  son's  character  as  a  Christian  gentleman — Bailey  sat 
rigid  as  a  statue  of  marble,  and  made  no  response  whatever 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  47 

to  anything  that  she  said.  The  tears  came  to  the  round 
black  eyes  of  Grady,  as  he  placed  his  hand  on  Bailey's 
shoulder  and  said,  "  Cheer  up,  my  boy  !  you'll  soon  be  free 
to  punish  the  guilty  rascal."  If  Mr.  Myron  Finch  had 
heard  the  Irish  burr  of  the  r  in  the  word  rascal,  it  would 
have  caused  him  to  tremble  in  every  limb.  But  Grady's 
attempts  were  as  futile  as  Mrs.  Bailey's.  The  young  man 
was  in  a  kind  of  mental  stupor,  and,  as  the  enormity  of 
Finch's  treachery  was  realized,  he  seemed  to  forget  every- 
thing else,  even  his  own  condition^  At  length  John  Grady, 
as  if  to  arouse  him,  said, 

"  You  saved  my  life,  Mr.  Bailey,  and  the  Gradys  never 
forget  a  friend.  While  I  live,  and  can  earn  a  dollar,  your 
mother  will  never  want  for  a  home." 

George  Bailey  silently  pressed  the  hand  of  his  friend  in 
token  of  the  gratitude  he  felt  but  could  not  express.  The 
next  morning  he  was  to  be  escorted  to  State-prison  by  two 
deputy-sheriffs.  At  length  the  hour  carne  when  mother  and 
son  were  compelled  to  part ;  and  Grady,  after  bidding  his 
friend  farewell  for  the  present,  retired  into  the  corridor  in 
order  not  to  disturb  the  privacy  of  their  parting.  We 
draw  the  curtain  over  the  scene — a  scene  perhaps  harder 
to  bear  than  death  itself — and  leave  Bailey  to  his  sad  and 
lonely  meditation  on  all  that  had  happened  to  him  during 
the  past  few  months.  Since  his  mind  had  slowly  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  Finch  had  accomplished  his  ruin,  a 
thirst  for  revenge  had  arisen  in  his  heart  which  the  villain's 
blood  could  not  suffice  to  quench.  Nothing  short  of  a 
slow,  lingering  death  by  inches  and  in  torture  could  satisfy 
his  vindictive  feelings.  A  new  and  fearful  passion  had 
entered  Bailey's  heart,  and,  like  Aaron's  rod  swallowing  the 
rods  of  the  magi,  it  devoured  the  last  remnant  of  the  pas- 
sion he  had  felt  for  Grace  Van  Hess.  His  last  thoughts 
on  the  first  night  of  his  conviction  as  a  felon  were,  "  My 
passion  for  revenge  will  keep  me  alive  by  filling  me  with 
hope,  and  the  ten  years  will  quickly  pass  away." 

John  Grady  had  kindly  given  his  arm  to  the  poor  strick- 
en lady,  and,  without  a  word,  had  escorted  her  to  his  home. 
She  had  passively  accompanied  him,  without  knowing  or 


48  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

inquiring  whither.  He  quietly  introduced  her  to  his  \vife 
with  the  simple  remark,  "  My  dear,  this  is  the  mother  of 
the  young  man  who  saved  my  life,  and  she  is  tired,  and 
sorely  needs  rest."  Mrs.  Grady,  without  uttering  a  sylla- 
ble, took  her  hat  and  shawl,  and  tried  to  make  her  comfort- 
able in  her  own  rocking-chair. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 

As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears. 
•  •  *  *  « 

I  suffered  chains  and  courted  death." — BYRON. 

BAILEY  entered  the  prison  resolved  to  do  his  duty,  and 
to  submit  patiently  to  his  lot ;  to  conform  to  all  the  rules 
and  regulations,  and,  if  possible,  to  merit  the  approbation 
of  the  prison  authorities.  The  putting  on  of  the  striped 
clothing  caused  a  shiver  to  pass  through  his  frame;  the 
prison  fare  he  found  coarse  and  bad ;  but  this  he  did  not 
mind  much,  for  he  had  never  been  very  fastidious  about 
his  eating,  provided  the  food  was  clean ;  the  small  narrow 
cell  seemed  at  first  to  stifle  him,  but  he  soon  got  used  to  it ; 
the  manual  "hard  labor"  in  the  stone  -  quarry  he  felt  was 
good  for  him,  because  it  produced  that  weariness  of  body 
Avhich  enabled  him  to  sleep.  lie  seldom  spoke  to  any  one. 
He  appeared  always  brooding  over  his  great  wrong.  His 
first  month  in  prison  was  passed  quietly  enough.  The 
thing  that  most  troubled  him  was  the  indifference  of  the 
warden,  who  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  the  convicts. 
His  authority  was  exercised  by  the  keepers,  the  most  of 
whom  were  utterly  ignorant  and  extremely  brutal.  The 
chaplain  performed  his  duties  in  a  perfunctory  manner — 
preached  his  sermons,  drew  his  salary,  and  never  once  con- 
descended to  mingle  personally  among  the  criminals,  to 
touch  their  hearts  and  reform  their  morals.  The  higher 
officials  were  always  very  busy  preparing  the  cells,  the 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  49 

workshops,  the  dining-hall,  the  beds,  the  food,  the  very 
walls  with  whitewash,  for  a  few  days  prior  to  the  visit  of 
the  State-prison  inspector.  That  visit  once  safely  over,  they 
all  relapsed  into  their  chronic  state  of  self-indulgence.  The 
reform  of  the  prisoner  was  a  matter  of  no  consequence ;  the 
maintenance  of  rigid  discipline  was  the  one  thing  needful. 
Hence  the  slightest,  the  most  careless  or  thoughtless  infrac- 
tion of  rule  was  punished  with  exceeding  severity.  During 
the  second  month  of  his  imprisonment  Bailey  found  him- 
self working  beside  a  sickly  youth,  who  was  suffering  from 
a  severe  cold  which  had  settled  on  his  lungs.  The  fact  is, 
"Williams — for  that  was  the  name  of  the  youth — should 
have  been  sent  to  the  hospital,  for  he  was  totally  unfit  to 
do  the  heavy  work  assigned  him.  In  making  some  heavy 
lifts  Bailey  had  frequently  assisted  him.  The  keeper,  one 
Tinan,  a  low,  burly,  brutal  fellow,  who  seemed  to  take  pleas- 
ure in  inflicting  pain,  observing  this,  swore  at  Williams,  and 
struck  him  with  his  whip.  George  Bailey  said, 

"Don't  you  see  that  the  lad  is  sick?  and  as  long  as  I  do 
his  work  and  my  own,  you  have  no  right  to  strike  him." 

"  Haven't  I  ?"  replied  the  ruffian ;  "  you  are  insubordi- 
nate, and  by  I'll  strike  you  too !"  He  gave  Bailey 

a  lash  across  the  cheek.  In  a  moment  George  felled  him 
to  the  earth  with  a  single  blow,  which  would,  perhaps,  have 
killed  him  had  not  his  skull  been  of  more  than  ordinary 
thickness.  The  fellow,  though  stunned  and  dazed,  began 
groping  for  his  pistol,  while  Bailey,  standing  over  him,  said, 

"  If  you  draw  that  pistol  I  shall  kill  you  in  self-defence. 
I  call  these  men  to  witness  that  you  were  the  aggressor, 
without  the  shadow  of  a  cause." 

The  cowardly  brute  arose  and  approached  Bailey  with  a 
manner  which  was  meant  to  overawe  him ;  but  the  latter 
kept  his  eye  on  him  in  such  a  manner  that  he  did  not  dare 
to  strike  or  shoot. 

"By I'll  pay  you  off  for  this!  I'll  have  your  life 

for  this,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Michael  Tinan !" 

For  this  offence  the  warden  sent  Bailey  to  the  cold 
shower-bath — a  horrible  punishment — and  to  a  dark  cell, 
on  bread-and-water,  for  thirty  days.  The  cell  was  under- 

"4 


50  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

ground,  damp,  and  unwholesome.  He  had  a  little  dirty 
straw,  without  blanket  or  other  covering,  for  a  bed.  But, 
thanks  to  his  excellent  constitution,  he  survived  this  bar- 
barous treatment.  In  the  mockery  of  a  trial  that  had  pre- 
ceded his  punishment,  some  of  the  convicts,  through  fear 
or  in  the  hope  of  shortening  their  terms  of  confinement, 
had  absolutely  endorsed  the  falsehoods  of  Tinan  the  keep- 
er, and  made  it  to  appear  that  Bailey  was  the  aggressor. 
After  the  expiration  of  the  thirty  days  Bailey  went  to 
work  again  in  the  stone-quarry.  Pie  saw  that  Tinan  was 
seeking  an  opportunity  to  insult  him,  and  an  occasion  to 
have  him  punished.  He  observed  that  all  the  keepers  had 
imbibed  a  strong  prejudice  against  him.  A  keeper  named 
Ronan,  who  relieved  Tinan,  approached  Bailey  one  day  at 
work,  and  asked  him  for  what  he  had  been  sent  up? 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Bailey. 

"  You  are  a  liar !"  said  Ronan. 

"  You  are  a  coward  and  a  bully  !"  said  Bailey. 

The  keeper  struck  him  with  his  whip.  George  seized  a 
billet  of  wood  which  happened  to  be  near  and  chased  the 
brute  for  his  life. 

Again  there  was  the  mockery  of  a  trial.  Again  there 
was  the  false  evidence  of  cowardly  convicts.  This  time 
Bailey  defended  himself  with  great  skill.  He  said, 

"  Mr.  Warden,  there  is  a  conspiracy  to  murder  me  among 
your  brutal  keepers.  Tinan  and  Ronan  have  sought  to 
take  my  life.  They  have  so  frightened  the  miserable  con- 
victs under  their  care  that  they  perjure  themselves  through 
fear.  When  you  inflicted  your  punishment  of  the  shower- 
bath,  and  the  thirty  days'  confinement  on  bread-and-water 
in  a  dark  cell,  I  committed  no  offence  except  to  expostulate 
against  whipping  a  sick  youth  who  was  unable  to  work. 
When  the  inspector  comes  here  again  I  shall  demand  an 
investigation,  and  I  shall  show  forth  your  negligence  and 
your  inhumanity.  If  you  imprison  me  you  cannot  cover 
the  facts,  for  they  are  in  the  hands  of  my  friend,  who  is 
the  editor  of  a  weekly  paper." 

At  the  word  editor  the  warden  grew  pale,  for  of  all 
things  he  most  feared  the  Press.  He  was  extremely  anx- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  51 

ious  to  hold  his  position,  which  to  him  was  a  sinecure. 
Bailey  continued : 

"  You  will  have  to  murder  me  before  you  subdue  me. 
Your  legal  punishments  cannot  kill  me,  for,  thank  Heaven, 
I  am  strong,  and  mean  to  live  out  my  ten  years.  But  re- 
member this,  Mr.  Warden,  I  mean  to  obey  all  the  rules  and 
regulations,  and  you  must  order  your  brutes  to  let  me 
alone.  My  friend,  the  editor,  is  now  in  Albany  seeking 
my  release,  and  when  I  am  free  I  shall  thoroughly  expose 
the  horrible  treatment  given  the  helpless  convicts  in  this 
prison." 

If  these  words  frightened  the  warden,  who  was  simply 
an  indolent  coward,  and  saved  George  Bailey  from  a  severe 
punishment,  they  were  the  means  of  preventing  his  release 
before  the  expiration  of  the  full  term  of  ten  years ;  for  ev- 
ery inquiry  concerning  his  conduct  received  an  unfavorable 
reply,  and  the  adjectives  placed  opposite  his  name  were 
"  proud,"  "  stubborn,"  "  disobedient,"  "  quarrelsome,"  and 
"  dangerous." 

The  only  punishment  for  the  second  "  offence  "  was  that 
he  should  wear  a  ball  and  chain  for  fifteen  days.  His 
speech  showed  him  an  educated,  humane  gentleman ;  and 
so  the  vulgar  brutes  of  keepers  christened  him  "  Gentleman 
George,"  by  way  of  ridicule.  But  they  all  mightily  feared 
him  ;  for  they  soon  saw  that,  valuing  his  own  life  little,  he 
valued  theirs  much  less.  He  conformed  to  the  rules,  and 
treated  the  officials  with  contemptuous  indifference. 

One  day  the  prison  inspector  sent  for  Bailey,  and  told 
him  he  was  very  sorry  to  find  such  bad  reports  concerning 
his  conduct,  "for,  as  Mr.  John  Grady,  the  editor  of  the 
Weekly  Reformer,  had  been  for  weeks  in  Albany  begging 
the  governor  to  pardon  you,  I  have  been  requested  by  his 
Excellency  to  inquire  into  your  case,  and  I  am  very  sorry 
to  find  that  you  are  considered  incorrigible." 

"  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  Mr.  Grady,  but,  sir,  I  desire  no 
pardon,  for  I  committed  no  crime.  Had  I  been  a  hypocrite, 
or  pretended  to  a  piety  I  did  not  feel ;  had  I  been  an  in- 
human brute,  and  allowed  a  sick  boy  to  be  beaten  to  death, 
then  you  would  have  received  glowing  accounts  of  me,  and 


52  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

the  governor  would  have  graciously  pardoned  me.  "Why, 
sir,  the  worst  thieves  and  burglars  shorten  their  terms  by 
playing  what  they  vulgarly  term  and  meanly  boast  of  as 
'  the  pious  dodge.'  " 

"  Bailey,  you  talk  like  a  man  of  education.  For  what 
crime  were  you  sent  here?" 

"  For  no  crime  whatever." 

The  inspector  shook  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Truly 
he  is  a  hopeless  case."  Then  he  and  the  warden  exchanged 
meaning  looks,  and  Bailey  was  informed  that  he  might 
retire. 

"  Mr.  Inspector,"  said  Bailey,  "  you  know  nothing,  nor  are 
you  allowed  to  know  anything,  of  the  inhuman  cruelties  per- 
petrated within  these  walls.  From  the  warden  down  to  the 
lowest  watchman — " 

"Silence,  sir,  and  go  to  your  work!"  said  the  warden. 
"  You  are  the  most  dangerous  convict  in  the  prison." 

That  night,  after  the  inspector  had  left  to  visit  and  look 
into  the  condition  of  other  prisons  in  a  like  able  and  search- 
ing manner,  George  Bailey  received  the  punishment  of  the 
shower-bath,  and  was  sent  to  a  dark  cell  for  thirty  days,  to 
be  fed  on  bread -and -water  administered  once  each  day. 
AVhen  the  period  of  his  solitary  confinement  had  expired, 
he  was  compelled  to  wear  a  ball  and  chain  for  two  months. 
The  chaplain,  a  neat,  genteel,  and  very  decorous  kind  of 
young  man,  who  went  through  his  duties  in  a  perfunctory 
fashion,  but  who  had  no  feeling  of  charity,  like  his  MASTER, 
for  the  poor  fallen  sinner,  approached  Bailey  one  day  as  he 
was  returning  from  the  stone-quarry,  dragging  the  ball  and 
chain,  and  attempted  to  utter  some  words  of  pious  but  su- 
perficial condolence.  Bailey  waived  him  off  with  the  re- 
mark, "  I  don't  believe  in  your  God :  your  God  is  a  time- 
server  and  a  condoner  of  lies  and  cruelties :  your  God  stands 
silent,  and  allows  falsehoods  to  be  poured  into  the  ears  of 
prison  inspectors."  The  neat  young  chaplain  colored,  cither 
with  anger  or  shame,  perhaps  with  both,  as  he  raised  his  soft 
white  hands,  of  which  he  was  very  proud,  and  uttered  the 
one  word,  "  Incorrigible !" 

No  one  was  now  allowed  to  see  Bailev.     Letters  from 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  53 

his  mother  and  Grady  were  intercepted.  He  was  complete- 
ly shut  out  from  the  world  beyond  his  prison  walls.  He 
conformed  to  all  the  rules;  being  strong  and  healthy,  he 
performed  the  hard  labor  assigned  him.  The  warden,  the 
chaplain,  the  physician,  all  the  officials,  from  the  lowest  to 
the  highest,  hated  and  feared  him  ;  but,  as  long  as  he  vio- 
lated no  law,  they  let  him  severely  alone.  Although  the 
better  class  of  convicts  respected  him  on  account  of  his  res- 
cue of  the  sick  lad,  he  held  no  communion  with  them. 
Bailey  was  called  by  some  "  George  the  Silent,"  and  by  the 
keepers,  by  way  of  irony,  "  The  Gentleman." 

With  brutality,  profanity,  obscenity,  and  licentiousness 
everywhere  about  him  and  above  him,  Bailey  began  to  fear 
for  his  moral  nature ;  and  a  nameless  dread  took  possession 
of  him,  that  long  before  the  expiration  of  his  ten  years  of 
confinement  he  might  become  degraded  and  brutalized  by 
the  very  force  of  association.  His  aim  became  to  preserve 
his  self-respect;  and  so  he  longed  for  darkness  and  his  sol- 
itary cell.  Here  he  formed  the  habit  of  talking  in  a  low 
tone  to  himself.  He  reviewed  his  past  life ;  wondered  for 
what  offence  of  his  own,  or  for  what  sin  of  his  father's,  he 
had  been  doomed  to  such  a  terrible  fate;  questioned  the 
justice  and  mercy  of  God,  though  he  was  too  intelligent  to 
doubt  his  existence.  He  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 
God  paid  no  more  attention  to  the  struggles  of  men  than 
to  the  battles  of  ants.  The  ants  make  fellow-ants  slaves ; 
and  have  their  captains  and  governors,  their  palaces  and 
prisons,  their  wardens  and  keepers  (no  doubt  brutal  ones 
like  our  own),  and  inspectors  just  as  sagacious  as  ours.  "  I 
wonder,"  soliloquized  Bailey,  "  how  many  ants  are  im- 
mured like  me  for  no  crime,  only  to  make  way  for  the  pro- 
motion of  other  ants  like  Finch  and  Quin.  God's  laws 
govern  the  universe,  and  men  and  ants  are  governed  by 
their  own  passions  and  propensities.  The  days  of  miracles 
passed  away  with  the  apostles.  'Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will 
repay,  saith  the  Lord.'  Very  well ;  when  I  get  out  of  this 
prison  I  shall  assuredly  help  the  Lord,  and  in  this  thing  I 
shall  certainly  do  the  Lord's  work.  I  shall  be  an  instru- 
ment of  retribution  in  his  hands.  All  I  ask  is  patience — 


54  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

patience,  and  the  retention  of  my  self-respect  and  my  rea- 
son." 

He  laid  out  a  course  of  study  by  review.  He  demon- 
strated mentally  all  the  propositions  of  Euclid.  The  intel- 
lectual effort  to  recall  the  order  of  the  theorems  and  prob- 
lems strengthened  his  memory,  and  the  demonstrations  dis- 
ciplined his  reasoning  faculty  and  improved  his  power  of 
expression.  He  solved  algebraic  problems  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night.  The  mental  pictures  of  the  equations,  by 
practice,  became  as  clear  to  his  conception  as  though  they 
were  written  on  paper.  He  reviewed  all  the  history  he  had 
ever  studied  or  read.  The  empires  of  the  East,  the  repub- 
lics of  Greece  and  Rome,  the  Roman  and  Mohammedan  em- 
pires of  the  West  and  of  the  East,  with  their  capitals,  their 
laws,  their  civilization,  and  their  geography,  were  all  care- 
fully and  systematically  traced.  Naturally  his  mind  dwelt 
on  all  the  noted  State  prisoners.  Duke  Robert  of  Xorman- 
dy,  Richard  of  the  Lion  Heart,  Richard  II.,  Edward  II., 
Henry  VI.,  Charles  L,  Louis  XVI.,  Xapoleon,  Toussaint 
TOuverture — all  the  prisoners,  great  and  small,  had  a  spe- 
cial fascination  for  him.  The  fate  of  the  "  Man  in  the  Iron 
Mask  "  was  peculiarly  interesting  to  him.  His  mind,  how- 
ever, always  reverted  to  the  brave  Italian,  the  study  of 
whose  life  had  inspired  him  (Bailey)  to  preserve  his  men- 
tal faculties  by  constant  exercise — to  that  truly  courageous 
patriot  who,  immured  for  many  years  in  an  Austrian  dun- 
geon, deep  and  damp,  kept  himself  alive,  in  spite  of  his 
jailer's  attempts  to  destroy  his  life,  by  composing  poetry, 
without  pen,  ink,  or  paper,  and  treasuring  whole  cantos  in 
his  memory,  so  that  he  was  able  to  print  them  when  at  last 
released.  Bailey  was  not  a  poet ;  he  was  rather  a  practical 
man  with  a  scientific  turn  of  mind,  caused,  perhaps,  by  his 
medical  studies.  His  knowledge  of  physiology  and  hy- 
giene enabled  him  to  take  good  care  of  his  physical  health  ; 
and  his  acquaintance  with  psychology,  though  limited, 
showed  him  the  danger  of  "  evil  communications,"  and 
warned  him  to  beware  of  wicked  associations.  He  reflect- 
ed ;  he  talked  to  his  favorites ;  he  would  say,  in  a  tone  half 
of  pity  and  half  of  scorn,  "Robert,  my  poor  fellow,  how  did 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  55 

you  feel  in  your  prison  when  your  learned  brother  had  your 
eyes  plucked  out — a  trick  that  the  Crusaders  had  brought 
back  from  that  highly  civilized  capital  of  the  Roman  em- 
pire of  the  East  ?"  "  Good  Marquis  Lafayette,  you  had  a 
hard  time  of  it,  no  doubt,  in  your  Austrian  dungeon  of  01- 
inutz — you,  who  had  been  the  friend  and  companion  of  our 
own  Washington ;  and  your  term  was  just  the  same  as 
mine."  When  Bailey  reflected  on  the  punishment  of  the 
shower-bath,  whose  severity  always  caused  him  to  shudder, 
he  would  recall  the  case  of  Jugurtha,  captured  by  Marius, 
and  kept  alive  for  nine  days  up  to  his  neck  in  cold  water. 
"Ha!  those  Romans  knew  how  to  punish  as  well  as  to 
reward." 

It  may  be  easily  understood  that,  under  an  enforced  sim- 
plicity of  diet,  regular  habits,  and  constant  reviews,  the 
young  man  grew  physically  and  intellectually  a  Titan.  All 
the  impetuosity,  all  the  frankness,  all  the  sunshine  of  his 
nature,  which  had  made  him,  before  his  imprisonment,  so 
lovable  a  companion,  were  forever  gone ;  and  instead  of  the 
impulsive,  light-hearted  youth  whom  we  introduced  in  the 
first  chapter  of  this  story,  we  find  a  keen,  cold,  calculating, 
vindictive  man,  whose  long,  weary  term  of  imprisonment 
has  at  last  drawn  to  a  close.  He  is  only  thirty-three  years 
old,  but  looks  at  least  ten  years  older,  for  his  face  is  clear, 
pale,  and  strongly  marked,  and  his  hair  and  beard  are  an 
iron-gray. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
"  Sick  in  the  world's  regard,  wretched  and  low." — SHAKSPEARE. 

"A  soul  exasperated  in  ills, falls  out 
With  everything." — ADDISON. 

AFTER  his  release  from  prison  Bailey  sought  employ- 
ment as  a  day-laborer,  and  worked  sometimes^for  farmers 
and  sometimes  on  the  railroads.  In  the  first  place,  he  de- 
sired to  accustom  himself  to  freedom  ;  and  in  the  second 
place,  to  earn  money  enough  to  enable  him  to  obtain  em- 


56  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

ploymcnt  congenial  to  his  taste  and  his  education.  He 
wished,  also,  to  enter  the  great  city  of  New  York  in  the 
garb  of  a  gentleman.  He  was  resolved  to  bend  every  en- 
ergy to  the  acquisition  of  money ;  for  without  money  it 
would  be  out  of  his  power  to  wreak  vengeance  on  Finch 
and  Quin.  Visions  of  revenge  occupied  his  thoughts  by 
day  and  his  dreams  by  night ;  in  the  field,  in  the  cellar,  on 
the  railroad,  wherever  he  toiled  for  his  dollar  a  day,  while 
his  great  strength  enabled  him  to  perform  the  work  of  two 
men,  his  thoughts  never  wandered  from  his  settled  purpose 
to  destroy  the  two  fiends  who  had  caused  his  ruin  and  his 
sufferings.  He  lived  upon  the  coarsest  fare ;  he  slept  on 
the  meanest  bed ;  he  had  no  expenses,  for  he  had  no  little 
vices.  His  first  impulse  on  leaving  the  prison  was  to  seek 
his  mother ;  but,  on  reflection,  he  hesitated  to  return  to  her 
in  his  poverty,  and  become,  perhaps,  a  pensioner  on  her 
bounty.  Bailey  had  learned  the  lesson  of  patience,  and 
had  wisely  concluded  that  a  few  months  could  make  little 
difference.  At  present  a  return  to  the  city  could  not  im- 
prove, but  very  likely  injure,  his  mother's  condition  in  life, 
whatever  it  might  be.  For  years  he  had  not  heard  any- 
thing concerning  her  or  John  Grady,  for  the  prison  officials, 
with  a  refinement  of  cruelty,  had  intercepted  and  destroyed 
their  letters. 

For  four  months  after  his  release  he  had  toiled  and  saved, 
until  now,  at  the  close  of  an  August  day,  he  found  himself 
with  fifty  dollars  in  his  pocket  and  a  respectable  suit  of 
clothes  on  his  back.  He  stood  alone  on  the  heights  of 
Weehawken,  overlooking  the  city  of  his  birth,  which  lay 
before  him,  long  and  low,  like  some  huge  monster  of  the 
deep,  endeavoring  to  make  its  way  out  to  the  ocean  be- 
yond. The  smoke  lazily  arose  from  a  thousand  chimneys, 
and  a  thousand  vessels  of  every  description  speckled  the 
lordly  Hudson  and  the  magnificent  bay  below  it,  from 
Yonkers  to  Staten  Island ;  for,  from  his  elevated  position, 
his  eye  swept  over  a  distance  of  twenty  miles.  Behind 
him  the  blood-red  sun  of  a  sultry  day  was  slowly  sinking 
toward  the  horizon,  and  casting  his  crimson  rays  over  the 
swampy  plains  that  stretch  away  toward  the  Orange  Moun- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  57 

tains.  All  was  silent  save  the  song  of  bird  and  the  hum  of 
the  countless  insects  bred  of  the  torrid  heat. 

This  was  Bailey's  first  sight  of  the  city  since  he  left  it 
ten  and  a  half  years  ago.  The  time  now  appeared  short ; 
but  oh,  how  long  in  passing !  Perhaps  the  very  vividness 
of  his  recollection  of  the  events  that  occurred  at  his  trial 
and  conviction  made  it  to  appear  as  if  all  had  happened 
yesterday.  He  looked  long  and  intently  at  the  city ;  his 
brow  became  corrugated  with  thought  and  passion ;  he 
clinched  his  hands  and  stamped  his  feet  as  though  he  were 
treading  an  adder  to  death,  and  the  look  of  his  face  was 
fearful  in  its  rage — dark  as  the  thick  clouds  which  portend 
a  thunder-storm.  Gradually  the  expression  changed  to  one 
more  sinister  and  dangerous,  whose  only  outward  symbol 
was  a  laugh  —  a  laugh  which  would  cause  the  listener  to 
shudder,  so  fierce,  so  malignant,  and  so  vindictive  was  it. 
Finally  he  shook  his  head,  and,  as  was  his  wont,  com- 
menced to  talk  to  himself.  "No,  no,  none  of  this.  There 
must  be  no  outward  sign.  All  feelings,  all  emotions,  all 
passions  must  be  subservient  to  this  one  master -passion. 
Hatred  and  anger  must  be  subject  to  revenge.  Time,  toil, 
money,  must  minister  to  the  sole  purpose  of  my  life.  God 
and  man  forsook  me.  I  would  have  died  but  for  my  hope. 
I  must  not  let  meaner  passions  betray  their  monarch.  Fool- 
ish trust,  and  still  more  foolish  talk,  put  the  weapons  into 
the  hands  of  my  foes  which  they  used  against  me  to  my 
destruction.  Silence,  reticence  —  ah  !  I  have  received  ex- 
cellent training  in  prison — a  face  of  adamant,  a  heart  dead, 
dead  to  all  the  world  save  my  dear  mother  and  my  good 
friend  Grady  —  these  be  my  armor;  while  skill,  cunning, 
and  courage  shall  be  my  offensive  arms."  Again  Bailey 
shook  his  head  and  his  frame,  as  if  trying  to  shake  off 
some  hideous  dream.  As  he  turned  to  plod  his  weary  way 
toward  Hoboken,  he  murmured,  in  a  tone  tender  and  lov- 
ing, "My  mother,  my  sweet,  gentle  mother,  how  it  will 
gladden  your  heart  to  see  me  !" 

A*  he  strode  along  the  public  highway,  past  the  Elysian 
Fields  toward  the  ferry,  with  the  firm,  elastic,  graceful  step 
of  perfect  health,  many  a  man  and  many  a  woman  too 


58  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

turned  to  look  again  at  the  youthful  face  and  form,  so 
handsome  and  so  strong,  and  wondered  to  see  the  iron-gray 
hair  of  middle-age.  Bailey  had  the  introspective  expres- 
sion which  solitude  always  imparts,  and  an  appearance  of 
patient  dignity  which  long  suffering  invariably  gives.  There 
was  also  the  air  of  the  cell  about  him — a  nameless,  inde- 
scribable air,  which  once  seen  can  never  be  forgotten,  and 
which  a  detective  can  always  recognize  in  a  moment. 

When  George  Bailey  had  reached  the  city,  he  sought  the 
nearest  drug  store  to  examine  a  directory.  He  searched  in 
vain  for  the  name  of  his  mother.  He  turned  to  the  word 
Grady,  and  took  down  the  addresses  of  four  John  Gradys. 
He  took  down  the  residence  of  Myron  Finch,  merchant, 
and  of  Timothy  Quin,  liquor  dealer.  He  first  endeavored 
to  find  his  friend  Grady ;  but  the  particular  John  Grady 
whom  he  desired  to  see  had  evidently  left  New  York.  He 
remembered  the  residence  of  his  old  pastor,  and  thither  he 
hastened,  to  obtain,  if  possible,  information  concerning  his 
mother.  Relying  on  the  change  that  time  and  trouble  had 
made  in  his  appearance,  he  resolved  to  leave  the  g6od  old 
man  in  ignorance  as  to  who  he  was.  The  Rev.  Caleb  Smith, 
Bailey  knew,  was  well  acquainted  with  his  mother,  with  Mr. 
Jacob  Van  Hess,  and  perhaps  with  Grady. 

"  Mr.  Smith,  excuse  a  stranger's  intrusion ;  but  being  a 
stranger  in  the  city,  and  anxious  for  information  concerning 
a  lady  who  was  formerly  a  member  of  your  church,  I  have 
taken  the  liberty  to  call  on  you." 

"  Pray  be  seated,  sir,"  said  the  pastor ;  "  it  is  no  intrusion, 
and  I  shall  be  happy  to  give  you  any  information  that  it 
may  be  in  my  power  to  give." 

"  You  were  acquainted,  Mr.  Smith,  with  a  lady,  the  widow 
of  the  late  Dr.  George  Bailey  ?" 

"  Certainly,  sir ;  I  knew  the  lady  intimately." 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  said  George,  "  where  she  now  lives?" 

"  The  lady  you  speak  of  is  now  no  more :  she  died  about 
four  years  ago." 

The  young  man  turned  the  color  of  the  dead ;  he  almost 
fell  from  the  chair.  He  turned  on  the  seat  and  grasped  the 
back  with  both  hands,  as  he  groaned, 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  59 

"  Dead !  dead !     My  God !  is  she  dead  ?" 

The  good  clergyman  arose,  and  bending  over  Bailey,  said, 
"  Young  man,  you  appear  strangely  affected ;  was  the  lady 
a  relation  of  yours  ?" 

Bailey,  by  a  superhuman  effort,  repressed  his  emotion, 
arose,  and  confronting  Mr.  Smith  with  an  expression  which 
was  fiercely  savage,  demanded, 

"  Of  what  did  she  die  ?  Was  she  alone  ?  Was  she  neg- 
lected? Was  she  starved  to  death?" 

"  No,  sir ;  Mrs.  Bailey  died  a  natural  death.  She  was 
matron  of  a  half-orphan  asylum :  she  was  gently  and  ten- 
derly nursed  by  Miss  Edith  Wilde,  the  daughter  of  William 
Wilde,  the  banker." 

"William  Wilde,  of  the  banking-house  of  Warrcnton, 
Wilde  &  Co.  ?" 

"  The  same.  Miss  Wilde  obtained  for  Mrs.  Bailey  this  ex- 
cellent position  soon  after  her  son's  conviction  as  a  forger. 
But,  sir,  may  I  ask  if  you  are  any  relation  ?  Do  you  know 
anything  of  that  wicked  son  of  hers,  who  brought  her  gray 
hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave  ?" 

"  Enough,  enough !  Mr.  Smith,  I  am  a  near  relation. 
You  are  mistaken  about  that  wicked  son  of  hers.  He  never 
committed  an  act  of  forgery." 

"All  I  know  is,"  replied  Mr.  Smith,  "that  he  was  tried 
and  convicted ;  that  I  read  the  evidence  at  the  time,  and 
that  this  evidence  proved  him  guilty.  Mother  and  son  be- 
ing members  of  my  church,  I  very  naturally  took  a  deep  in- 
terest in  the  trial,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  conclusion  that 
in  a  moment  of  weakness  he  fell." 

Bailey's  iron-gray  hair  prevented  the  pastor  from  form- 
ing the  least  suspicion  that  the  man  he  was  condemning 
was  then  standing  before  him. 

"  Well,  let  that  pass,"  said  Bailey.  "  When  did  you  last 
see  Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess  ?" 

"  I  met  him  only  two  weeks  ago,"  replied  Mr.  Smith,  "  at 
a  meeting  of  the  Temperance  Alliance.  He  is  getting  very 
old  and  very  infirm.  The  business  is  carried  on  now  chief- 
ly by  his  son-in-law,  Mr.  Myron  Finch." 

"  Finch  married  his  daughter  Grace  ?"  gasped,  rather 
than  spoke,  Bailey. 


60  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"Yes;  soon  after  the  conviction  of  young  Bailey,  My- 
ron Finch  was  made  a  partner  in  the  house,  and  married 
Miss  Van  Hess." 

"  Are  you  acquainted  with  a  temperance  writer  and  lect- 
urer named  John  Grady  ?"  inquired  Bailey. 

"  I  knew  him  slightly,"  replied  the  pastor,  "  but  for  some 
years  back  I  have  lost  sight  of  him.  It  seems  to  me  that 
he  has  left  the  city." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Smith  ;  that  is  all.  I  will  go  now.  I 
am  only  tired." 

Bailey  uttered  the  last  sentence  to  cover  the  state  of  his 
feelings ;  for  he  had  observed  an  expression  of  anxiety  and 
pity  in  the  good  clergyman's  face,  and  he  did  not  care  to 
submit  to  any  close  questioning  as  to  the  cause  of  his  trou- 
ble. When  he  had  reached  the  sidewalk  his  head  became 
dizzy,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  he  staggered  like  a  drunken 
man.  Ever  and  anon  he  groaned,  "  Oh,  my  poor  mother ! 
my  poor  mother !  Could  I  but  have  seen  you  once  before 
you  died !  Could  I  have  had  your  blessing !  Dead !  dead ! 
dead  !  Alone !  alone  !  Now  for  Finch  and  Quin,  her 
murderers!"  Had  either  of  those  worthies  crossed  his  path 
at  that  moment  he  would  certainly  have  strangled  him  to 
death.  Gradually  he  recovered  his  equanimity,  for  the 
passion  of  revenge  had  again  absorbed  every  other  emo- 
tion ;  and  this  feeling  had  been  nursed  so  long,  and  he  was 
so  accustomed  to  it,  that  it  usually  calmed  him.  He  pray- 
ed for  patience.  He  was  actually  afraid  that  in  his  present 
mood  he  would  be  in  danger  of  abandoning  his  carefully 
prepared  plans,  and  of  so  acting  that,  instead  of  being  able 
to  wreak  vengeance  on  his  mother's  murderers,  they  might 
be  able  once  more  to  work  him  infinite  injury — for  Bailey 
knew  that  the  scoundrels  hated  him  because  they  had 
wronged  him. 

And  what  were  those  plans?  Simply  to  obtain  employ- 
ment and  to  earn  money.  "Money  is  the  sinews  of  war.'' 
Money  buys  everything,  because  it  represents  labor;  or,  in 
fact,  it  is  accumulated  labor.  Twenty  thousand  dollars  com- 
mands the  labor  of  sixty  men  for  one  year.  The  labor  of 
these  sixty  men  would  destroy  Finch  and  Quin  as  readily 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  61 

as  it  would  blast  a  rock  forty  feet  high.  Thus  Bailey  had 
reasoned  in  his  solitary  cell,  and  while  toiling  on  a  farm  as 
a  day -laborer.  Money  became  an  absolute  necessity  to  him, 
and  he  must  have  it.  But  how  was  he  to  get  his  foot  on 
the  first  round  of  the  ladder  ?  When  once  the  ladder  is 
found,  and  grasped  with  both  hands,  the  ascent  is  easy 
enouo-h ;  indeed,  those  below  us  will  either  shove  us  up  or 
off.  It  is  often  hard  enough  for  a  man  with  the  best  of 
testimonials  to  obtain  employment  suitable  to  his  tastes 
and  his  education  ;  how  much  more  so  for  a  convict  with- 
out a  friend  in  the  world.  Bailey  wandered  all  over  the 
city,  from  early  in  the  morning  until  late  at  night,  seeking 
a  position  but  finding  none.  He  boarded  in  a  mechanics' 
eating-house ;  he  slept  in  a  little  hall  bedroom  ;  he  paid  for 
his  meals  as  he  ate  them.  In  short,  he  lived  on  twenty-five 
cents  a  day.  But  he  was  hardy,  and  suffered  little.  He 
suffered  more  from  a  sense  of  utter  loneliness  than  from  all 
else  combined.  After  his  imprisonment  the  terrible  soli- 
tude amidst  thousands  and  thousands  of  people  appalled 
him.  His  solitary  cell  in  State-prison  did  not  appear  to 
him  half  so  oppressive  as  the  unknown  sea  of  faces  on 
Broadway  and  other  streets  of  the  huge  city.  The  crowd 
chatting  and  laughing,  not  one  of  whom  he  knew,  appeared 
to  him  so  weird  and  strange — as  strange  as  though  he  had 
found  himself  among  the  inhabitants  of  Sodom,  raised  by 
a  miracle  out  of  the  depths  of  the  Dead  Sea.  He  found 
himself  repeating  a  line  from  Byron,  "  Solitary  as  a  lonely 
cloud  in  a  summer  sky,"  and  confessed  to  himself  that 
"  Lonely  as  a  stranger  in  a  great  city  "  would  have  convey- 
ed a  much  better  idea  of  that  loneliness  which,  worse  than 
"  Hope  deferred,  maketh  the  heart  sick." 

Wherever  he  sought  employment  Bailey  was  asked  for 
a  city  reference.  A  large  store  advertised  for  a  clerk 
and  book-keeper  at  a  moderate  salary.  The  proprietor 
was  pleased  with  Bailey's  appearance,  liked  his  hand- 
writing, and  was  satisfied  that  he  was  a  man  of  business 
ability.  About  to  employ  him,  he  was  asked  for  his  ref- 
erences. 

"  I  have  no  city  reference,  sir ;  I  am  a  stranger." 


62  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"Then  you  have  a  country  reference?"  asked  the  pro- 
prietor. 

'  I  have  not,  sir ;  I  have  no  reference  of  any  kind." 

'  What,  no  reference  from  your  last  employer  ?" 

'  Xo,  sir." 

'  Who  was  your  last  employer?" 

'  I  decline  to  answer,"  replied  Bailey. 

'  You  decline  to  answer,  eh  ?  So  that's  it,  is  it  ?  Why, 
man,  you  know  that  no  merchant  of  any  business  capacity 
could  possibly  employ  you.  I  am  really  sorry,  for,  having 
taken  rather  a  fancy  to  you,  I  would  have  liked  very  much 
to  have  given  you  the  position." 

"  Sir,  sir,  you  can  trust  me ;  you  can,  indeed !  I  have 
been  very  unfortunate,  but  never  criminal." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  replied  the  merchant,  "  it  is  madness 
to  expect  employment  of  this  kind  without  testimonials  as 
to  character.  Why,  for  aught  I  know,  you  may  have  been 
in  the  State-prison.  Of  course  I  do  not  say  this  to  insult 
you,  for  I  do  not  believe  that  you  ever  were.  But  if  we 
employed  men  without  proper  testimonials,  we  might  fill 
our  stores  with  thieves  and  returned  convicts." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  doubtless,  very  true,  sir,"  said  Bailey,  in  an 
absent  kind  of  way  ;  "  you  are  right ;  it  is  only  just  I,  in 
your  place,  would  very  likely  act  in  the  same  way.  Good- 
day,  sir,  and  thank  you ;"  and  George  Bailey  sadly  left  the 
store. 

He  now  resolved  to  seek  meaner  work.  He  saw  very 
clearly  that  all  the  higher  sort  of  labor  was  closed  against 
men  who  could  not  produce  the  very  best  testimonials.  But 
even  this  lower  work  was  not  so  easily  obtained  as  he  had 
fancied.  Bailey  answered,  in  person,  an  advertisement  for 
a  young  man  to  open  oysters.  The  man  scanned  George 
from  head  to  foot,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  opened 
oysters.  He  replied  that  he  had  not.  The  rough  owner 
of  the  oyster-cellar  burst  out  laughing  in  his  face,  and  told 
him  that  he  would  not  suit,  and  that  he  was  too  old  to  learn 
the  trade.  He  applied  for  a  place  as  waiter  in  a  hotel,  but 
found  that  the  colored  race  had  a  monopoly  of  the  busi- 
ness. He  sought  employment  to  blast  rocks  in  the  upper 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  63 

part  of  the  city ;  but  there  he  found  the  Irish  in  full  pos- 
session, and  the  "  Boss "  opposed  to  the  amalgamation  of 
the  different  races. 

His  little  store  of  money,  notwithstanding  the  utmost 
frugality,  was  almost  consumed,  and  work  of  some  kind  he 
must  find  or  starve.  He  could  return  to  the  country  and 
obtain  employment  as  a  farm  hand,  but  that  would  have 
interfered  with  his  plans  for  vengeance  on  Myron  Finch. 
Bailey  found  the  position  of  returned  convict  anything  but 
a  pleasant  one.  If  he  had  confessed  what  he  was — a  much- 
injured  man — no  one  would  believe  him,  no  one  would  trust 
him.  Every  convict  told  the  same  story  of  the  miscarriage 
of  justice  and  of  conviction  on  perjured  evidence.  Bailey 
could  not  enlist  as  a  private  soldier,  nor  could  he  seek  a 
new  career  in  another  land, 'because,  for  the  reason  already 
stated,  he  must  be  near  his  enemies. 

He  walked  mile  after  mile  of  the  streets  of  the  city.  He 
ran  after  this  advertisement  and  then  after  that,  but  to  no 
purpose.  The  shoes  were  nearly  worn  off  his  feet,  and  he 
could  not  afford  to  expend  money  for  their  repair.  He 
was  fast  becoming  seedy  in  his  appearance,  nor  could  he 
any  longer  pay  for  his  washing,  lie  toiled  on  and  on,  re- 
minding one  of  the  last  man  in  a  six-day's  walking-match, 
who  has  not  one  chance  in  fifty  of  succeeding,  but  who, 
nevertheless,  plods  on  almost  hopelessly,  determined  to  per- 
severe to  the  very  last  moment.  A  publishing-house  ad- 
vertised for  book  canvassers ;  but  Bailey  had  not  the  nec- 
essary sum  of  money  to  deposit  as  security.  For  six  weeks 
he  had  thus  sought  an  opportunity  to  earn  an  honest  liveli- 
hood. Everywhere  he  had  been  refused.  It  seemed  as  if 
State-prison  and  forger  must  be  written  on  his  face,  for  no 
one  would  trust  him.  In  his  long  walks  he  had  met  many 
persons  whom  he  had  known  before  his  conviction ;  he  rec- 
ognized them,  but  they  failed  to  know  him,  and  Bailey  was 
too  proud  to  make  himself  known.  He  saw  and  recognized 
Finch  and  Quin,  for  he  had  a  great  curiosity  to  see  the  two 
men  whom  he  intended  to  destroy,  and  so  he  went  pur- 
posely near  their  places  of  business.  His  sufferings  and  pri- 
vations were  very  severe,  but  he  never  groaned,  he  never 


64  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

whined,  he  never  complained.  "With  a  patience  and  a  for- 
titude born  of  the  solitary  cell  and  the  single  meal  in  the 
twenty-four  hours,  he  bore  all  without  a  murmur,  and  made 
up  his  mind  to  succeed  or  die  in  the  attempt.  He  never 
went  to  church ;  he  never  prayed.  He  had  no  faith  in  the 
justice  or  mercy  of  God ;  indeed,  as  previously  stated,  he 
had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  God  did  not  meddle  in 
human  affairs.  All  Sunday  he  lay  in  his  bed,  resting,  and 
reflecting  on  the  past,  and  thinking  of  some  way  of  getting 
work. 

One  day  he  read  an  advertisement  stating  that  for  one 
dollar,  paid  in  advance,  situations  as  clerks,  book-keepers, 
railroad  conductors,  etc.,  could  be  procured.  Bailey  had  re- 
solved to  try  this  as  a  sort  of  forlorn-hope.  After  paying 
the  dollar,  he  had  just  fifty  cents  left  in  the  world.  The 
name  of  the  advertiser  was  Sphinx — truly  an  appropriate 
name ;  but  even  a  better  name  for  him  would  have  been 
Shark.  Two  days  had  passed,  and  Bailey  had  heard  not  a 
word  from  the  benevolent  Sphinx.  The  fifty  cents  were 
nearly  gone,  and  the  young  man  was  well-nigh  desperate. 
He  called  several  times  on  this  Mr.  Sphinx,  but  could  nev- 
er obtain  a  satisfactory  interview  with  him.  Bailey  found 
others  like  himself  anxiously  waiting;  and,  on  inquiry,  dis- 
covered that  they  had  been  coming  to*  Sphinx's  office  for 
several  weeks,  and  that  he  had  never  been  known  to  procure 
a  single  position  for  a  single  individual.  It  was  clearly  a 
hoax,  and  Sphinx  was  a  rascal  and  the  meanest  kind  of  rob- 
ber. He  was  the  very  carrion  of  thieves,  because  he  fat- 
tened on  the  miseries  of  helpless  and  impoverished  immi- 
grants, and  on  the  misfortunes  of  his  own  countrymen. 
Bailey  needed  his  dollar  too  badly  to  allow  himself  to  sub- 
mit to  the  swindle.  He  entered  Sphinx's  shabby  office  and 
demanded  his  money ;  but  that  worthy  tried  to  put  him 
off,  as  he  had  done  hundreds  of  others,  and  threatened  the 
police.  Bailey  quietly  went  to  the  door,  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock,  and  then  put  it  in  his  pocket.  "  Xow,  give  me 
my  dollar,  or  I'll  knock  you  down  and  take  it  from  you. 
I  have  no  money  to  go  to  law,  nor  have  the  others  who 
come  here,  and,  you  scoundrel,  you  know  it.  You  worse 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  65 

than  highway  robber,  you  worse  than  burglar,  you  rob  the 
starving,  knowing  that  they  have  no  redress  !  Come,  foul 
carrion,  give  me  my  dollar,  or — " 

"  What  ?"  asked  Sphinx,  shaking  all  over. 

"I'll  knock  you  down,  take  my  dollar,  pass  out  to  the 
nearest  station-house  and  give  myself  up  to  the  authorities, 
and  thereby  expose  your  nefarious  traffic." 

The  shark  Sphinx,  seeing  that  he  had  not  an  ignorant 
immigrant  to  deal  with,  handed  Bailey  his  money,  and  told 
him  to  clear  out  of  his  office — an  act  which  Bailey  was  not 
slow  in  performing,  for  he  was  afraid  that  he  might  be 
tempted  to  give  the  rascal  personal  chastisement. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Our  time  is  fixed,  and  all  our  days  are  numbered ; 
How  long,  how  short,  we  know  not :  this  we  know, 
Duty  requires  we  calmly  wait  the  summons, 
Nor  dare  to  stir  till  Heaven  shall  give  permission." 

BLAIR. 

BAILEY  made  his  last  dollar  support  him  for  eight  days 
longer.  He  abandoned  his  lodgings  in  the  mechanics' 
boarding-house,  and.slept  sometimes  in  the  Park,  and  some- 
times in  vacant  lots  in  the  upper  part  of  the  city.  He 
lived  on  a  single  loaf  of  bread  a  day,  which  he  moistened 
with  water  obtained  from  a  hydrant;  and  still  he  did  not 
give  up  the  idea  of  procuring  employment  in  the  city. 
Hardships  and  privations  were  not  new  to  him.  All  these 
and  more  he  was  resolved  to  bear,  in  the  hope  that  he 
would  finally  succeed,  and  be  in  a  position  to  re-establish 
his  reputation  in  the  very  place  where  it  had  been  lost. 
His  rehabilitation  presupposed  the  exposure  and  ruin  of 
Finch  and  his  base  confederate. 

Finally  his  last  cent  had  been  expended  for  a  penny 
newspaper — not  for  the  news,  or  the  crimes,  or  the  pol- 
itics, but  for  the  sake  of  the  column  headed  "  Wanted." 
Foot-sore,  weary,  hungry,  he  plodded  on,  visiting  the  store 
or  the  office  of  cvcrv  advertiser,  but  the  inevitable  demand 

5 


66  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

for  a  city  reference  drove  him  into  the  street  again.  Sick, 
almost  in  despair,  he  sank  on  a  bench  in  Washington  Pa- 
rade-ground, and  stretched  himself  out  at  full  length  to 
snatch  a  few  hours'  rest,  perhaps  sleep,  ere  he  started  out 
to  renew  his  search  for  work.  lie  was  gazing  at  the  stars, 
and  bitterly  thinking  of  all  the  abundance  around  him, 
while  he  was  suffering  the  pangs  of  hunger.  His  reflec- 
tions were  bitter  in  the  extreme.  Here  was  Myron  Finch 
with  his  palatial  residence,  his  country -seat,  his  club,  his 
horses,  and  his  yacht;  nay,  with  his  dogs  better  fed  and 
housed  than  he,  George  Bailey.  Here  was  that  other  vil- 
lain, Quin,  with  his  many  liquor  stores,  his  abundance  of 
money,  and  his  horses  and  carriages,  while  he,  Bailey,  was 
starving  —  he,  a  man  who  had  never  done  the  slightest 
wrong  to  any  human  being.  "  There  is  a  God,"  muttered 
Bailey,  "  who  made  those  stars  and  this  round  world  of 
ours,  but  he  permits  the  wicked  to  '  flourish  like  a  green 
bay  tree.'  '  I  am  old,'  saith  the  false  psalmist,  'yet  have  I 
never  seen  the  righteous  begging  their  bread,'  or  something 
of  this  sort.  Oh,  mother,  mother !  I  hope  you  cannot  see 
your  wretched  son  to-night.  If  you  are  in  one  of  those 
many  mansions,  I  trust  you  arc  not  permitted  to  know  what 
takes  place  on  this  accursed  earth  !" 

Gradually  his  reflections  grew  darker  and  darker. 
Thoughts  of  suicide  took  possession  of  his  mind.  Had 
it  not  been  for  the  desire  of  vengeance,  which  absorbed  his 
every  fibre,  it  is  more  than  likely  that  lie  would  have  walk- 
ed down  to  the  Hudson  River  that  night  and  ended  his 
miseries,  as  thousands  had  done  before  him.  His  eyes 
closed  at  last,  and  he  fell  into  an  uneasy  slumber.  In  a 
few  hours  the  chill  of  a  cold,  damp  October  morning  awoke 
him,  and  he  shivered.  It  was  the  hour  before  dawn :  the 
cold  had  penetrated  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones,  so  that  his 
teeth  fairly  chattered.  He  arose  and  staggered  toward  the 
river,  in  the  vague  hope  that  he  might  find  employment  as 
a  stevedore.  He  was  weak  from  hunger,  and  dizzy  from 
cold  and  sickness.  He  staggered  on  like  a  drunken  man  ; 
he  reached  the  brink  of  the  river,  and  gazed  long  and  in- 
tently at  the  dark  waters  temptingly  inviting  him  to  make 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  67 

one  plunge  and  all  would  bo  over.  As  tlie  river  flowed 
past  him,  his  feverish  imagination  saw  eyes,  and  mouth, 
and  face ;  and  he  fancied  that  the  moving  monster  said, 
"  Come,  one  plunge,  and  all  is  over !  I'll  give  you  rest  in 
ray  soft  bosom !"  By  a  superhuman  effort  Bailey  turned, 
saying  to  himself,  "This  is  madness:  I  must  leave  before 
my  reason  is  completely  lost."  Daylight  had  come,  and 
with  it  the  desire  to  make  one  more  struggle,  and,  if  he 
failed,  to  lie  down  and  die.  lie  would  not  commit  suicide, 
he  would  not  beg,  nor  would  he,  above  all,  steal.  Either 
suicide  or  theft  would  help  to  confirm  the  justice  of  the 
sentence  that  sent  him  to  State-prison. 

As  Bailey  was  passing  one  of  the  low  dens,  half  eating- 
house,  half  groggery,  and  wholly  a  rendezvous  for  thieves, 
he  was  astonished  to  hear  himself  accosted  by  his  prison 
title  of  "  Gentleman  George." 

"  Why,  Gentleman  George,  as  I  live  !"  said  a  well-dressed 
man,  two  or  three  years  younger  than  Bailey. 

"  Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ?"  replied  Bailey.  "  Is  this  the 
wcalc,  sickly  boy  whom  I  used  to  know  ten  years  ago  ?" 

"  The  very  same  lad  for  whom  you  got  the  cold  shower- 
bath  and  thirty  days'  solitary  confinement.  See  how  strong 
I  have  grown  !  But  for  you  the  rascally  keeper  would  have 
killed  me.  But — but  you  look  sick  and  seedy.  No  luck, 
no  '  swag,'  I  suppose.  Come,  come,  I'll  share  with  you ; 
I  am  '  flush  ;'  made  a  haul  a  week  ago." 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  friend,  that  I  do  not  quite  understand 
you.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  look  strong  and  well,  but  if  you 
have  obtained  money  in  any  improper  way  I  want  none  of 
it." 

"  Come  and  have  a  glass  of  something  warm — have  some 
breakfast  with  me." 

"  No,  no ;  I  have  vowed  to  live  an  honest  life,  and  I  shall 
not  accept  a  portion  of  what  was  stolen  from  another.  I 
am  glad  to  see  you  so  well  and  so  strong.  Good-morning. 
I  must  go." 

But  Bill  Williams  (for  that  was  the  name,  real  or  ficti- 
tious, by  which  he  was  known)  placed  himself  in  front  of 
Bailey,  and  said, 


68  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Sec  here,  Gentleman  George,  I  understand  your  feelings 
and  respect  'em  ;  and  I'd  be  the  last  man  to  wish  to  see  yon 
one  of  us ;  for,  since  the  day  you  knocked  that  there  scoun- 
drel of  a  keeper  down,  I've  loved  you  as  I  used  to  love  my 
mother :  that  is,  the  loves  was  alike.  It  was  respect  for 
goodness  and  tenderness,  and  tenderness  particularly  for 
the  weak  and  sick.  I  may  not  explain  myself  clear,  but 
I've  respected  and  loved  you  since  then.  I  always  knowcd 
you  was  an  innocent,  injured  man ;  leastways  I  believed  it. 
Now,  what  are  you  agoin'  for  to  do  ?  Are  you  agoin'  to 
try  to  git  work,  and  be  honest,  as  I  did  ?  Then  take  my 
word  for  it,  you  won't  succeed.  Why,  man,  them  fellows 
ask  you  for  city  references,  and  for  the  name  of  your  last 
employer;  and  when  you  have  none  to  give  except  the  name 
of  the  State-prison,  they  suspects  you  direct  to  be  a  thief." 

"You  must  have  had  my  own  experience,"  said  Bailey, 
"  after  your  release." 

"  Oh  yes,  your  experience  is  my  experience,  and  my  ex- 
perience is  the  experience  of  all.  No  matter  how  innocent 
we  may  be  when  we  go  to  prison,  when  we  are  discharged 
we  must  become  criminals  for  life.  Nobody  will  trust  us ; 
nobody  will  employ  us.  We  are  driven  to  either  steal  or 
starve ! — a  nice  choice,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  know,  poor  fellow.     Did  you  suffer  much  ?" 

"  Much  ?  Now  see  here,  Gentleman  George,  I  really  did 
try,  for  my  dead  mother's  sake — and  maybe  for  yours,  for  I 
believed  you  good,  like  my  mother — to  lead  an  honest  life ; 
but  they  wouldn't  let  me :  they  wouldn't  give  me  work ;  and 
when  I  was  nigh  dying  of  hunger  one  of  the  'boys'  met 
me  and  introduced  me  to  the  '  fraternity.'  I  took  a  fever, 
from  cold  and  hunger  and  worry,  and  the  '  boys '  was  kind 
to  me,  and  nursed  me  and  pulled  me  through ;  and  of  course 
I've  stuck  to  'em  ever  since." 

"  These  returned  convicts  were  very  kind  to  you." 

"  Kind !  you  may  say  that — far  kinder  than  any  one  I 
ever  saw,  exceptin'  mother  and  you." 

"  They  poured  oil  and  wine  into  your  wounds,  poor  fel- 
low," said  Bailey,  "  while  the  priest  and  the  Levite  passed 
by  on  the  other  side." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  69 

"  I  don't  quite  take  your  meaning.  I  only  know  that 
they  poured  oil  on  my  wittals,  and  wine  down  my  throat, 
as  I  was  a-gettin'  better  of  the  fever ;  and  as  for  priests  and 
parsons,  I  hate  'em  all  ever  since  that  dapper  little  feller  used 
to  preach  humbug  to  us  on  Sundays,  and  then  stand  by  and 
see  us  punished  for  nauthin'  on  week-days." 

"  Have  you  tried,  since  your  recovery,  to  find  honest 
work  ?"  asked  Bailey. 

"  No ;  I  have  not,  and  never  intend  to.  I  made  the  effort 
once  and  nearly  died  in  the  attempt.  The  '  boys '  was 
good  and  kind  to  me,  and  I'll  stick  to  'em  through  thick 
and  thin.  But  see  here,  Gentleman  George,  you  want  to 
lead  an  honest  life,  I  know  you  do.  Here's  five  hundred 
dollars ;  you  can  have  it  as  a  gift — you  can  have  it  as  a 
loan :  you  may  pay  me  when  you  are  able.  I'll  never  trou- 
ble you  about  it." 

The  tears  came  to  George's  eyes  as  he  waved  the  money 
aside,  and  said, 

"  No,  no ;  I  cannot,  indeed  I  cannot.  I  am  very  grateful, 
so  grateful  that  I  cannot  put  my  gratitude  in  words." 

The  thief  quickly  divined  his  reason. 

"Gentleman  George,  here  is  a  watch  that  was  never 
bought  with  stolen  money :  this  here  watch  was  left  me 
by  my  mother.  You  are  hungry,  and  you  won't  eat  with 
me ;  you  have  not  a  cent,  and  you  won't  take  a  dollar  to 
oblige  me,  to  relieve  my  feelin's  ;  now  take  this  here  hon- 
est watch  and  pawn  it.  You'll  get  enough  on  it  from  your 
'  uncle '  to  keep  you  a  week  or  two.  But  mark  my  words," 
continued  the  thief,  as  Bailey  waved  the  watch  aside,  "  you 
must  come  to  it  or  starve.  Why,  a  man  of  your  abilities 
would  soon  be  chief;  and  then  you  need  do  no  'work'  your- 
self; you  need  run  no  risk.  All  you  would  have  to  do  would 
be  to  sit  in  a  cosy  parlor  and  plan  the  '  work'  for  the  '  boys.' " 

George  Bailey  smiled,  for  the  first  time  in  a  week,  as  he 
replied, 

"  Thank  you,  my  friend,  for  the  honor ;  but  really  I 
must  decline  it.  If  I  die,  I  shall  die  in  my  integrity.  I 
have  never  yet  committed  a  single  crime,  and  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  commence  now." 


70  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

As  the  two  men  approached  Broadway,  Williams,  the 
burglar,  well  known  as  such  to  the  police,  saw  two  of  the 
officers  closely  eying  Bailey,  and  wondering  who  was  the 
new  recruit.  Williams  paused  and  said,  "  I  am  very  sorry 
that  you  won't  take  the  watch ;  but  I  must  leave  you  here 
or  I  may  get  you  into  trouble.  Here's  my  number :  if 
ever  you  think  better  on  it,  inquire  for  Bill  Williams,  and 
ail  that  a  man  can  do  for  another  I  will  do  for  you." 
The  two  men,  whom  a  strange  chain  of  circumstances  had 
brought  together,  shook  hands  and  parted. 

Bailey  plodded  on,  weary,  oh,  how  weary !  his  limbs 
were  so  tired  and  weak !  lie  desired  to  lie  down  and 
sleep.  His  head  ached,  and  his  whole  body  burned  with 
a  feverish  heat.  His  hunger  was  gone,  but  a  quenchless 
thirst  had  taken  its  place.  Almost  intuitively,  for  he  was 
well-nigh  dazed,  he  paused  at  every  hydrant  and  drank  co- 
pious draughts  of  water,  and  freely  bathed  his  burning  tem- 
ples. Still  he  mechanically  staggered  on,  with  the  vague 
hope  of  the  morning  dispelling  all  other  thoughts — that  he 
would  find  rest  or  comfort  near  the  river.  Once  or  twice 
he  overheard,  in  a  dim,  indistinct  way,  a  policeman  say, 
"  That  fellow's  pretty  drunk ;  but  he's  quiet,  and  I'll  let  him 
go  home."  His  senses  were  nearly  gone ;  and  yet  the  riv- 
er had  for  him  a  strange,  unaccountable  fascination.  He 
had  overcome  the  desire  for  self-destruction  while  his  will 
was  active  and  under  command ;  but  now  the  fever  was 
fast  destroying  the  vigor  of  his  mind  and  driving  him  to 
the  fatal  river.  "A  cold  bath  in  the  soft  water — the  fire 
consumes  me !"  Bailey,  with  glazed  eye  and  tottering  step, 
stumbled  rather  than  walked  onward  through  Grand  Street, 
determined  on  one  thing  only — not  to  fall  down  and  die  in 
the  streets,  but  to  hide  himself  and  his  miseries  in  the  bo- 
som of  the  deep  waters.  He  had  almost  reached  the  river 
when  he  began  to  reel.  By  a  superhuman  effort  he  sup- 
ported himself  against  a  lamp-post ;  ran  his  hand  across  his 
brow,  as  if  to  sweep  away  the  mists  that  obscured  his  mind 
and  his  sight;  and  steadied  himself  by  force  of  will  for 
one  more  severe  struggle  by  clinching  his  hands  and  brac- 
ing his  whole  body,  and  saying  to  himself,  "  God  has  for- 


v  GEORGE   BAILEY.  71 

sakcn  me :  I  must  not  die  in  the  streets  like  a  dog.  I  will 
drown  myself !  This  act  at  least  will  be  my  own."  These 
thoughts,  vague  and  shadowy,  flitted  through  his  mind,  al- 
ready poisoned  by  malarial  fever  and  weakened  by  starva- 
tion. He  had  advanced  about  one  hundred  feet  nearer  the 
grave  he  had  been  so  resolutely  seeking,  when  all  his  ex- 
hausted energy  suddenly  gave  way,  and  he  plunged  forward 
head-foremost  on  the  sidewalk.  In  a  moment  a  crowd  of 
men,  women,  and  children  had  collected  around  the  fallen 
and  unconscious  man.  It  was  a  marvel  how  quickly  that 
crowd  had  sprung  into  existence.  No  man  could  tell  whence 
it  came  or  whither  it  would  go. 

There  they  stood,  looking  at  the  prostrate  form  before 
them  with  that  strange  pleasure  which  mankind  seems  to 
take  in  watching  human  suffering.  One  said  he  was  drunk, 
another  that  he  was  in  a  fit,  and  a  third  person  announced 
that  he  was  dead  as  Julius  Csesar  or  a  door-nail.  [Though 
why  Julius  Cassar  or  a  door-nail  is  deader  than  anything 
else,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.] 

A  burly  police-officer  approached  and  unceremoniously 
made  a  lane  in  the  crowd,  and  when  he  had  glanced  wisely 
for  the  space  of  twenty  seconds  at  Bailey's  face,  now  as  pale 
as  that  of  the  dead,  he  sagaciously  muttered,  rather  to  him- 
self than  the  mob,  whom  he  despised,  "  Dead  drunk  !"  He 
rapped  for  assistance,  told  the  crowd  to  make  room  for  the 
officers,  and  repeated  the  statement, "  The  man  is  only  dead 
drunk." 

The  people  accepted  this  decision  without  demur,  for  great 
is  the  force  of  authority,  and  were  slowly  retiring,  when  a 
strong,  dark  man  of  middle-age  and  with  clean-shaven  face, 
elbowed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  said, 

"  Stand  back,  and  give  the  man  a  breath  of  fresh  air ! 
Stand  back,  I  say,  or  you'll  tempt  me  to  use  the  carnal 
weapon !" 

At  sight  of  that  carnal  weapon,  and  the  shoulder  from 
which  it  grew,  and,  above  all,  at  the  ominous  burr  of  the  r 
in  carnal,  even  the  very  police-officer  drew  back. 

"  Why,  ye  fools,"  said  the  new-comer,  "  the  man's  no 
more  drunk  than  I  am  !  Don't  I  know  a  drunken  man  when 


72  GEORGE   BAILEY.  - 

I  see  him?  What  have  I  been  lecturing  on  these  fifteen 
years  ?" 

While  he  was  talking  to  the  crowd  he  had  been  loosen- 
ing Bailey's  cravat  and  sprinkling  his  face  with  cold  water. 
"  Here,  officer,  hold  up  his  head :  some  of  you  fetch  me  a  lit- 
tle brandy  and  peppermint." 

While  the  policeman  was  raising  the  head  and  shoulders  of 
the  dying  man,  his  hat  fell  off  and  exposed  his  entire  face 
and  head  to  view.  The  middle-aged  gentleman  who  had 
interposed  so  opportunely  now  looked  as  if  he  saw  a  ghost ; 
hi*  eyes  stood  out  like  two  round  black  beads,  and  his  whole 
face  manifested  the  deepest  astonishment;  but  he  quickly 
recovered. 

"  Hurry  np  with  that  brandy  !"  It  was  quickly  poured 
down  Bailey's  throat.  Tt  acted  like  magic,  for  Bailey  had  al- 
ways been  a  very  temperate  man.  He  opened  his  eyes  and 
gazed  wildly  around. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  he  asked.  "  Why,  Grady,  my  good  friend, 
is  that  you?  I've  been  searching  for  you  for  a  long  time." 

"  Don't  talk,  my  boy — don't  talk.  Some  of  you  fellows 
fetch  a  cab.  Ha !  it  was  lucky  I  came  along,  or  these  in- 
telligent gentlemen  would  have  locked  you  up  as  a  drunken 
man,  and  you  would  have  been  found  dead  in  your  cell  to- 
morrow !" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  HOL.  He  drawcth  out  the  thread  of  his  verbosity  finer  than  the 
staple  of  his  argument. 

"  MOTH.  They  have  been  at  a  great  feast  of  languages  and  stolen 
the  scraps." — SHAKSPEARE. 

WE  shall  now  trace  the  fortuitous  circumstances  that  led 
Mr.  John  Grady  to  discover  his  friend,  Mr.  George  Bailey, 
in  the  hands  of  the  police,  ready  to  be  locked  up  in  a  cell 
for  the  crime  of  starvation,  translated  by  those  sapient  and 
sagacious  guardians  of  society  into  the  word  "  drunken- 
ness." What  "  over-study  "  or  "  malaria"  is  to  the  stupid 
physician  who  fails  to  diagnose  a  disease,  "  drunkenness " 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  73 

is  to  the  ignorant  policeman ;  it  is  a  handy  term  to  which 
he  can  apply  everything  beyond  his  comprehension.  While 
Bailey  is  being  tenderly  nursed  at  Grady's  home,  we  shall 
give  an  outline  of  the  career  of  the  latter  since  the  two 
friends  had  parted  at  the  prison  door. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Grady  tried  to  explain  to  Ja- 
cob Van  Hess  what  manner  of  man  Myron  Finch  was,  and 
to  warn  him  to  beware  of  the  villany  of  his  future  son-in- 
law,  but  to  no  purpose.  Finch's  professions  of  religion 
completely  blinded  Van  Hess.  Just  as  soon  as  the  wed- 
ding between  Finch  and  Grace  had  taken  place,  and  as  the 
young  man  was  assured  of  his  partnership,  he  retaliated  by 
demanding  the  removal  of  Grady  from  his  salaried  position 
as  lecturer  for  the  Temperance  Alliance.  The  removal  was 
accomplished.  The  weekly  temperance  paper  which  Grady 
edited  produced  but  a  very  small  income,  and  consequently 
he  had  been  obliged  to  wander  about  from  city  to  city  seek- 
ing more  profitable  employment.  He  had  purchased  a  little 
home  in  Williamsburgh,  which,  no  matter  where  he  travel- 
led, was  always  his  head-quarters.  Latterly  he  had  "drum- 
med "  the  States  South  and  West  for  a  manufacturing  firm 
in  Brooklyn.  During  his  periodic  returns  to  his  wife  (he 
had  no  childrenj,  and  to  look  after  the  interests  of  his  news- 
paper, now  almost  entirely  edited  and  managed  by  a  print- 
er, he  often  hankered  for  his  old  business  of  lecturer.  He 
knew  that  he  was  a  natural -born  orator;  but  latterly  his 
voice  had  failed  him,  and  this  failure  was  a  sore  trouble  to 
him.  If  his  throat  could  be  cured,  he  might  again  gain 
fame  and  money  as  a  public  speaker. 

One  morning  he  saw  in  a  daily  paper  an  advertisement 
which  ran  as  follows : 

WASHINGTON  SCROGGS,  M.D.,  Office  —  Broome  Street,  by 
his  world-renowned  vacuum  method  cures  all  congestions,  liver 
complaint,  diseases  of  the  throat  and  lungs,  of  the  kidneys,  apoplexy, 
paralysis,  erysipelas,  clergyman's  sore  throat,  and  all  inflammations 
whatsoever.    Oifice  hours  from  9  to  12  and  from  2  to  5  o'clock." 

"  Clergyman's  sore  throat !"  thought  Grady.  "  That's  my 
man !"  To  resolve  and  to  execute  were  with  John  Grady 


74  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

almost  simultaneous  actions.  He  seized  his  hat,  on  the  im- 
pulse of  the  moment,  and  rushed  over  to  New  York,  to  try 
the  effects  of  the  "  world-renowned  vacuum  cure." 

"Are  you  the  vacuum  doctor?"  demanded  Grady,  in  a 
stern,  rasping  tone,  which  rather  startled  the  quiet  little 
man  of  the  "  receiver  and  air-pump." 

"  I  am  Doctor  Washington  Scroggs,  sir,  the  inventor  of 
the  world-renowned  vacuum  treatment,  the  greatest  blessing 
to  the  human  race,  not  excepting  Harvey's  discovery  of  the 
circulation  of  the  blood,  or  Jenner's  method  of  inoculation 
with  vaccine  (from  vacca,  a  cow)  for  the  varioloid,  vulgarly 
called  the  small-pox." 

Words  would  be  inadequate  to  express  the  self-satisfied 
unction  with  which  this  exordium  had  been  uttered.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say  that  it  completely  fascinated  John  Grady ;  for 
John,  being  an  orator,  loved  learned  words  of  ponderous 
sound,  and,  not  being  a  scholar,  failed  to  detect  the  pedan- 
try of  the  little  quack. 

"  My  dear  doctor,  I  have  clergyman's  sore  throat.  I  have 
been  a  lecturer.  I  am  now  editor  of  a  paper  entitled  the 
Weekly  Reformer.  I  wish  to  return  to  a  congenial  em- 
ployment. Can  you  cure  me,  doctor?" 

The  little  quack  eyed  John  Grady  with  his  mild,  furtive 
blue  eye,  while  he  smiled  placidly  and  said,  "Take  a  seat, 
sir :  may  I  ask  your  name  ?" 

"  John  Grady,  at  your  service." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Grady,"  said  the  little  man,  as  he  gently 
crossed  one  little  leg  over  the  other,  and  embraced  the  up- 
per limb  with  both  his  hands  in  a  manner  remarkable  for 
its  self-complacency,  and  with  a  smile  so  bland  that  it  would 
take  a  poet  to  find  something  in  heaven  to  which  he  could 
compare  it,  "  Well,  Mr.  Grady,  suppose  we  explain  our  sys- 
tem." To  whom  else  the  "  we  "  and  the  "  our  "  referred  no 
person  ever  yet  has  discovered.  Perhaps  in  his  own  line 
he  was  a  king  of  quacks,  and  therefore  entitled  to  use  the 
plural  pronoun.  "Let  me  premise  by  saying  that  I  have 
explored  all  the  systems  of  medicine — allopathic,  homoeo- 
pathic, hydropathic,  eclectic,  and  the  system  by  manipula- 
tion ;  this  is  by  rubbing,  and  kneading,  and  pinching  with 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  75 

the  band  (manus,  a  hand).  They  have  all  their  excellent 
points,  Mr.  Grady — excellent  points,  but  points  only ;  and 
points  were  defined,  when  I  went  to  school,  as  things  that 
have  position  but  no  magnitude.  These  systems,  sir,  are 
nothing,  nothing  but  empty  wind;"  and  the  little  man 
waved  them  off  with  his  thin  white  hand.  "  These  things, 
these  systems  just  impinge  (you  know  the  root,  sir),  just  im- 
pinge the  truth.  Each  doth  only  touch  it,  as  doth  the  tan- 
gent of  a  circle  at  one  point.  When  we  diagnose  a  disease, 
sir  (diagnose  from  the  Greek),  that  is  more  than  half  the 
battle.  We  first  ascertain  the  nature  of  the  disease ;  sec- 
ondly, its  cause ;  and  lastly,  the  proper  remedy  to  remove 
it" 

John  Grady  was  lost  in  wonder  at  the  fluency  and  learn- 
ing of  the  quiet  little  quack,  with  the  thin  gray  hair  and 
shabby  suit  of  black.  He  listened  in  rapt  attention  to 
every  word  he  uttered — a  fact  which  was  not  lost  by  the 
watchful  eye  of  AVashington  Scroggs,  M.D. 

"  All  disease,"  continued  the  quack,  gently  lowering  the 
right  limb  and  lifting  up  the  left  with  both  hands,  and 
giving  it  its  fair  share  of  nursing — "  all  disease.  Mr.  Grady, 
is  in  the  blood.  Apoplexy  (anotner  word  from  the  Greek  : 
the  Greek,  sir,  is  prolific  in  scientific  terms) — apoplexy  is 
caused  by  an  afflux  of  blood  or  serum  (both  Latin,  sir),  on 
the  brain.  What  then  ?  Death  or  paralysis.  The  cerebel- 
lum ceases  to  perform  its  proper  function ;  that  is  to  say, 
the  little  brain,  which  is  the  seat  of  movement,  doth  not, 
by  means  of  the  outcarrying  nerves,  convey  intelligence  to 
the  extremities,  and  the  patient  is  unable  to  move  his  limbs. 
According  to  the  size  of  the  clot,  or  the  amount  of  serum 
diffused,  the  paralysis  is  partial  or  complete.  The  nerve  is 
a  telegraphic  wire,  and  when  the  brain  is  injured,  intelligent 
communication  is  cut  off.  You  follow  me,  Mr.  Grady  ?" 
said  the  little  man,  with  the  blaaidest  and  most  complacent 
of  smiles. 

"  Follow  you  ?  Doctor,  I  drink  it  all  in.  This  is  the 
most  cogent  reasoning  I  ever  heard.  Other  doctors  feel 
your  pulse,  look  at  your  tongue,  ask  a  few  questions,  look 
profoundly  wise,  write  a  prescription  in  bad  Latin,  take 


76  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

tlicir  fee,  and  then  leave  Nature  to  cure  you  ;  but  you,  doc- 
tor, explain  everything  so  that  even  a  child  could  under- 
stand you." 

The  mild  little  man,  evidently  pleased  with  this  recogni- 
tion of  his  lucidity,  proceeded : 

"All  disease,  I  repeat,  is  in  the  circulation.  Propel  the 
life-giving,  the  life-preserving  sanguineous  fluid  in  healthy 
currents  (from  curro,  I  run)  to  the  diseased  part,  and  con- 
gestions are  removed.  I  do  not  pretend  to  cure  all  fevers, 
as  you  may  have  observed,  for  fevers  are  of  two  classes — 
the  one  caused  by  congestion,  the  other  by  poison.  Mala- 
ria, for  example,  is  a  poison,  vegetable  in  its  nature,  which 
enters  into  the  circulation,  and  causes  several  kinds  of  fever 
that  my  system  will  not  cure.  You  perceive,  sir,  that  there 
is  nothing  of  the  empiric  in  me,  for  I  make  no  claims  to  in- 
fallibility. But  when  the  fever  is  congestive,  as  in  the  case 
of  your  throat,  my  remedy  is  absolutely  certain.  There  are, 
sir,  millions  of  small,  delicate  vessels  called  capillaries  (from 
cfipillus,  a  hair),  as  fine  as  the  hairs  of  your  head,  scattered 
throughout  the  human  system.  A  congestion,  a  clot,  can 
only  be  removed  by  forcing  these  little  vessels,  or  rather 
the  sanguineous  fluid  in  these  little  vessels,  to  ebb  and  flow 
like  the  tides  of  the  mighty  ocean.  Constantly  repeated — 
for  great  is  the  power  of  repetition — these  minute  vessels 
will  fritter  away,  so  to  say,  the  hardest  clot,  the  worst  con- 
gestion. Now,  Mr.  Grady,  your  case  is  one  of  chronic 
(from  chronos,  time)  inflammation  of  the  throat.  The 
blood  in  the  capillaries  (the  root  I  have  already  given) 
is  congested,  clogged,  clotted.  You  take  my  meaning? 
Your  disease  had  its  origin  in  this  manner :  You  had  talk- 
ed long  and  loud,  peradventure  in  the  open  air ;  the  exer- 
cise inflamed  the  blood-vessels ;  in  this  condition  a  stream 
of  cold  air  struck  them ;  and  as  cold  contracts  everything 
but  water  when  it  turns  to  ice,  this  cold  contracted  or  con- 
gested the  blood,  and  hence  your  acute  inflammation  (from 
flamma,  a  flame)  of  the  throat.  Neglect,  or  probably  bad 
treatment,  converted  an  acute  into  a  chronic  attack,  and 
you  have  consequently  suffered  for  years.  This,  Mr.  Grady, 
is,  I  trust,  a  correct  diagnosis  of  your  disease." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  77 

"  Most  assuredly  it  is,  doctor.  You  could  not  have  de- 
scribed it  better  had  my  case  been  your  own." 

"  The  cause  and  the  disease  I  have  explained  to  your  sat- 
isfaction, and  now  we  must  seek  the  cure.  When  I  was  a 
boy,  the  old  women — no  bad  physicians,  some  of  them — 
used  mustard,  blisters,  cupping,  poultices,  and  blood-letting ; 
and  leeching  was  also  a  favorite  remedy.  These  things 
were  in  the  right  direction,  like  the  astrology  which  pre- 
ceded the  science  of  astronomy,  but  ineffectual  and  partial 
in  their  results.  The  old  women  aforesaid  were  wiser  than 
they  knew.  The  regular  faculty  of  medicine  (the  most  con- 
servative men  in  the  world,  by-the-way)  called  it  counter- 
irritation.  They  desired  to  draw  the  blood  from  the  con- 
gested part ;  but  their  plasters,  and  blisters,  and  blood-let- 
ting were  usually  ineffective,  because  the  work  was  only 
half  done;  because  the  means  employed  were  necessarily 
insufficient  and  imperfect.  The  desideratum  was  to  dis- 
cover, or  rather  invent,  a  plan  which  would  be  gentle,  con- 
stant, and  harmonious,  and  which  would  not  exhaust  by 
depletion  nor  endanger  by  cold.  This  desideratum  I  have 
invented." 

The  gentle,  complacent  expression  on  the  face  of  Wash- 
ington Scroggs  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  behold.  The  be- 
nevolent little  quack  perceived  that  his  fish  was  securely 
hooked,  and  so  he  thought  he  might  as  well  play  with  him 
for  a  little  while  before  he  landed  him  in  his  bag. 

"  You  are  aware,  Mr.  Grady,  for  I  perceive  you  are  your- 
self a  scholar,  that  air  presses  on  the  human  body  in  every 
direction  at  the  rate  of  fifteen  pounds  to  the  square  inch." 

"  Then  there  must  be  four  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  of 
air  pressing  on  my  hand  this  minute !"  said  Grady,  with  an 
expression  of  amazement  on  his  strongly-marked  features. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  philanthropist,  with  his  customary 
smile,  "  but  the  same  number  of  pounds  is  pressing  on  the 
other  side  of  your  hand,  the  one  balancing  the  other ;  oth- 
erwise, sir,  the  weight  of  air  would  crush  us.  You  can 
readily  imagine  that  if  the  air  under  the  cranium  did  not 
press  upward  with  the  same  force  that  it  presses  down- 
ward, the  superincumbent  (Latin,  incumbo  and  super) 


78  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

weight  would  crush  us.  Why,  sir,"  continued  the  little 
quack,  with  all  a  teacher's  loquacity  who  has  found  an  at- 
tentive scholar  who  will  pay  him  the  honor  of  listening — 
"  why,  sir,  the  air,  to  a  certain  appreciable  extent,  pene- 
trates through  these  brick  walls,  lath,  plaster,  and  all." 

The  observant  little  quack  did  not  fail  to  note  the  effect 
of  this  last  statement  on  Mr.  Grady,  and  running  his  white, 
thin  fingers  through  his  white,  thin  hair,  he  continued: 

"  These  philosophic  truths  I  taught  many  years  ago,  Mr. 
Grady,  in  my  high-school  of  Vermont.  I  had  been  an  un- 
remitting student  of  science  and  nature  in  those  days,  and, 
although  I  lost  my  position  as  a  teacher,  owing  to  the 
treachery  of  a  young  man  whom  I  instructed  with  great 
care,  yet  the  knowledge  was  of  paramount  importance  in 
the  study  of  therapeutics  (that  is,  the  science  of  cure).  By- 
the-way,  let  me  say,  in  passing,  that  I  received  a  prize  of 
one  thousand  francs  from  the  Academy  of  France  for  my 
essay  on  counter-irritants.  But  to  the  point,  Mr.  Grady. 
The  air,  as  I  have  just  enunciated,  presses  on  all  sides  at 
the  rate  of  fifteen  pounds  to  the  square  inch.  You  may 
remember,  at  some  period  of  your  life,  applying  mustard  to 
relieve  a  pain  in  some  part  of  the  body.  Well,  sir,  the  heat 
causes  an  expansion  of  the  air;  the  blood  in  the  little  capil- 
laries is  pressed  by  the  air  within  endeavoring  to  force  its 
way  to  the  surface,  to  fill  the  vacuum  caused  by  the  ex- 
pansion. This  rush  of  blood  to  the  surface  relieves  the 
congestion  which  occasioned  the  pain.  Mustard -plasters 
and  cupping  were  great  remedies  some  fifteen  years  ago  in 
my  native  State;  and  having  a  great  taste  for  the  study  of 
medicine,  I  inquired  into  the  causes  of  cure,  for  to  a  certain 
extent  cures  were  effected.  The  noble  profession  of  Galen 
and  Hippocrates  had  charms  for  me ;  and,  therefore,  hav- 
ing excellent  opportunities,  I  pursued  carefully  my  botanical 
studies,  oftentimes  accompanied  by  my  favorite  pupil,  My- 
ron Finch — " 

"Who?  Myron  Finch,  did  you  say?  Myron  Finch,  from 
Vermont?"  interrupted  Grady,  in  a  tone  of  great  surprise. 

"Yes;  Myron  Finch,  from  Vermont.  Do  you  know 
him  ?" 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  79 

"  Ilad  he  weak,  pale  eyes,  that  looked  washed  out,  a  flab- 
by, pale  face,  and  thin,  pale  hair?" 

"The  youth  of  whom  I  speak,"  replied  Scroggs,  "had 
very  light  eyes  and  hair,  and  a  pale,  fleshy  face.  He  was 
silent  and  reserved,  and  as  bad  a  young  man  as  ever  lived 
since  the  days  of  Cain." 

"  It  is  the  same.  There  cannot  be  two  men  in  the  whole 
universe  who  could  answer  that  description,"  said  Grady, 
"  and  be  so  abominably  wicked  at  the  same  time." 

"You  seem  to  be  acquainted  with  the  youth;  but  I 
trust  you  have  no  dealings  or  intercourse  of  any  sort  with 
him.  If  you  have  any,  cease  at  once,  for  he  is  a  consum- 
mate liar  and  hypocrite,  and  capable  of  perpetrating  any 
crime.  But  to  return :  One  day,  while  ruminating  in  the 
woods,  a  thought  flashed  through  my  mind  like  inspiration. 
Could  I  but  make  the  body  blush  all  over;  could  I  drive 
this  blood  back  from  the  surface,  and  could  I  force  it  in 
and  out  at  pleasure,  I  would  make  the  greatest  discovery 
that  mortal  man  ever  made.  To  make  a  long  story  short, 
I  invented  that  instrument "  (pointing  to  an  air-tight  wood- 
en vessel,  curiously  constructed).  "  If  you  will  go  into  it,  I 
shall  cover  you  all  over,  except  your  mouth,  nose,  and  eyes, 
with  India-rubber.  I  shall  then  exhaust  the  air  by  means 
of  that  powerful  air-pump.  I  can  withdraw  from  the  sur- 
face of  your  body  one  hundred,  five  hundred,  or  fifteen  hun- 
dred pounds  of  air.  The  air  within  rushes  out  to  fill  the 
vacuum,  and,  in  doing  so,  propels  the  blood  before  it  until 
it  reaches  the  surface,  which  then  blushes  all  over.  The  air 
is  allowed  to  rush  back  again,  and  thus  the  blood  is  pro- 
pelled (pello,  I  drive)  backward  and  forward  until  the  attri- 
tion removes  the  clot,  or  congestion.  You  comprehend  me, 
sir  ?" 

"Certainly,  certainly,  doctor,"  replied  Grady,  who  had 
been  a  somewhat  inattentive  listener  ever  since  the  name 
of  Myron  Finch  had  been  mentioned.  But  he  saw  that  it 
was  useless  to  try  to  stop  the  mild  old  man  when  once  he 
was  mounted  on  his  hobby.  Scroggs  had  formerly  taught 
etymology  in  the  high-school,  and  the  habit  which  he  had 
contracted  of  giving  the  roots  of  words  to  his  pupils  he 


80  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

could  never  abandon.  His  pedantry  was  simply  prodigious. 
lie  -was  fond  of  teaching  his  patients;  and,  until  he  intro- 
duced the  name  of  Finch,  Grady  was  a  splendid  subject  on 
which  to  practise  his  art  of  teaching. 

"Certainly,  I  comprehend  you,  doctor.  But  what  about 
Myron  Finch,  your  former  pupil  ?" 

"Let  us  eschew  him  for  the  present.  When  we  shall 
have  finished  our  business,  I  shall  tell  you  all  about  Myron 
Finch." 

The  little  quack,  though  a  great  "  benefactor "  to  the 
race — in  point  of  fact,  a  "philanthropist"  of  the  highest 
order — had  to  eat,  drink,  and  be  housed  like  ordinary  mor- 
tals; and  hence  he  had  his  mild  blue  eye  fixed  on  his  fee 
of  four  dollars.  He  had  a  curious  peculiarity  of  having 
folded  up,  in  small  neat  squares  about  an  inch  in  size,  sev- 
eral one-dollar  bills,  and  placed  carefully  in  his  vest  pocket, 
so  that  when  the  patient  handed  him  a  five-dollar  bill  (four 
being  the  first  retainer),  the  single  bill  was  all  ready  to  be 
handed  back  as  change. 

"  Mr.  Grady,  take  off  your  coat  and  vest,  step  into  the 
'  receiver,'  and  see  if  it  does  not  diagnose  your  disease  with 
unerring  accuracy." 

Grady  did  as  he  was  told,  stepped  in,  and  was  encased 
except  his  eyes,  mouth,  and  nose,  in  India-rubber.  He  sat, 
for  all  the  world,  like  a  cowled  monk  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  little  quack  placed  one  leg  over  the  other,  which  was  his 
favorite  attitude,  smiled  most  blandly,  and  pumped  out  one 
hundred  pounds  of  air,  which  was  marked  off  on  a  graduated 
scale  with  a  clock-shaped  face,  attached  to  the  "  receiver." 

"  Do  you  feel  any  pain  ?"  asked  the  quack. 

"  No,  sir ;  none  in  the  least,"  replied  Grady. 

The  quack  then  turned  off  two  hundred  pounds  of  air, 
and  asked, 

"  Do  you  feel  any  pain  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  doctor ;  I  feel  a  slight  crawling  sensation  in  the 
lower  part  of  my  throat." 

"  Ah  !  very  good,"  said  the  little  man,  with  his  customary 
benignant  smile ;  "  the  instrument  begins  to  locate  the  ex- 
act position  of  your  disease." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  81 

He  then  turned  off  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  air, 
and  said, 

"  How  now,  Mr.  Grady  ?" 

"  The  crawling  sensation  is  increasing." 

"  Very  well,  very  well,  sir ;  let  us  see  if  you  can  bear  three 
hundred  pounds.  How  do  you  feel  now  ?" 

"  I  think,  doctor,  that  that's  about  as  much  as  I  can 
stand." 

"  Very  good.  We  shall  now  go  back  to  two  fifty.  Do 
you  feel  it  now,  Mr.  Grady  ?" 

"  Scarcely." 

"  All  right.     How  now  ?     This  is  three  hundred." 

"  Just  a  little  crawling,"  replied  Grady,  "  but  not  as  much 
as  before." 

"  Now  we  shall  try  three  fifty  and  four  hundred.  How 
do  you  feel? — can  you  stand  any  more?  You  can?  Here 
is  five  hundred.  How  does  that  affect  you  ?" 

"  I  can  bear  it,  doctor." 

Thus  backward  and  forward,  from  two  fifty  to  five  hun- 
dred, the  little  quack  pumped  the  air  out  and  allowed  it  to 
rush  in  again  for  about  half  an  hour,  all  the  time  smiling 
and  chatting  with  the  air  of  a  man  performing  a  most  meri- 
torious action. 

As  Grady  stepped  out  of  the  "  receiver,"  his  first  words 
were,  "  Doctor,  what  is  your  charge  ?" 

"  Only  four  dollars  for  the  first  operation.  My  usual 
charge  is  forty  dollars  for  twelve  operations ;  and  if  any 
more  are  necessary,  which  is  not  often  the  case,  the  charge 
is  reduced." 

Grady  promptly  handed  the  mild  philanthropist  his  fee, 
and  then  took  his  seat  to  listen  to  all  he  could  learn  of  the 
antecedents  of  Myron  Finch. 

Washington  Scroggs,  M.D.,  feeling  in  the  best  possible 
humor,  took  a  seat  opposite  Grady,  lifted  the  right  leg  with 
both  hands  and  gently  laid  it  over  the  left — a  position  with- 
out which  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  expa- 
tiate on  the  wonders  of  his  system,  or  to  narrate  even  the 
youthful  history  of  Mr.  Myron  Finch — and  taking  out  an 
antiquated  snuffbox,  and  first  offering  Mr.  Grady  a  pinch, 

G 


82  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

which  that  gentleman  politely  declined,  filled  both  nostrils 
with  the  pungent  powder,  as  a  sort  of  awakener  of  his  re- 
tentive faculties,  and  thus  began  the  story  which  John  Gra- 
dy  was  so  anxious  to  hear : 

"  About  fifteen  years  ago  I  was  a  quiet,  industrious  teach- 
er of  a  high-school  in  the  State  of  Vermont.  I  was  addict- 
ed to  scientific  studies,  particularly  to  botany,  mineralogy, 
and  geology ;  and  during  the  pleasant  afternoons  of  the 
summer  and  autumn  it  was  my  custom  and  pleasure  to  se- 
lect certain  of  my  pupils  remarkable  for  docility  and  intel- 
ligence to  accompany  me  in  my  researches.  Among  these, 
the  most  docile,  the  most  orderly,  the  most  apprehensive, 
was  my  favorite  scholar,  Myron  Finch.  The  lad  was  about 
nineteen,  fair  to  look  at,  and  with  an  intellect  clever  beyond 
his  years.  He  was  the  son  of  a  well-to-do  farmer,  and  was 
completing  his  education  under  my  careful  supervision,  for 
the  purpose  of  engaging  in  the  teacher's  profession.  To 
me  he  appeared  extremely  grateful  and  deferential — quali- 
ties which,  combined  with  his  unquestioned  natural  abilities, 
commended  him  to  my  favor." 

Scroggs  always  endeavored,  except  when  working  at  his 
machine,  to  "  talk  like  a  book,"  and  never  failed  to  inter- 
lard his  conversation  with  the  Latin  and  Greek  roots  of 
the  big  words  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  using.  These 
roots  we  take  the  liberty  of  suppressing,  for  doubtless  they 
would  be  as  annoying  to  the  reader  as  they  were  to  honest 
John  Grajly. 

"  The  school  board,"  continued  Scroggs,  "  was  composed 
of  the  clergyman,  the  physician,  and  the  lawyer  of  the  town. 
I  use  the  definite  article  '  the,'  Mr.  Grady,  not  because  there 
were  not  other  clergymen,  physicians,  and  lawyers,  but  be- 
cause these  three  were  the  orthodox  Presbyterian  gentle- 
men whose  congregation,  patients,  and  clients  constituted 
more  than  seventy-five  per  centum  of  the  population.  This 
was  a  period  when  the  writings  of  certain  scientists  of  Eu- 
rope began  to  make  a  deep  impression  on  many  ardent  and 
enthusiastic  minds ;  and  not  a  few  of  the  scholarly  youths 
of  the  town,  whom  I  had  trained  to  a  love  of  Nature  and 
her  operations,  gave  expression  to  opinions,  especially  in 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  83 

regard  to  the  science  of  geology,  -which  were  considered  by 
the  elderly  conservative  people  at  war  with  revealed  relig- 
ion. Myron  Finch  was  a  reticent  lad,  kept  his  own  counsel, 
and  attended  the  Presbyterian  church  most  regularly,  in 
which  he  taught  a  Sunday-school  class.  Shortly  it  came  to 
pass  that  there  were  whisperings  regarding  my  orthodoxy — 
whisperings  that  my  unconscious'teaching  was  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  advanced  thinkers,  and  that  I  was  a  propagand- 
ist of  dangerous  heresies.  In  truth,  I  was  made  responsible 
for  all  the  infidelity  and  indifference  to  religion  of  which 
the  orthodox  complained.  It  is  true,  I  was  a  nominal  Chris- 
tian, was  regular  enough  at  church,  and  had  never  wittingly 
uttered  one  syllable  not  in  accordance  with  Divine  revela- 
tion. Of  course  I  was  the  last  man  in  the  town  to  hear  a 
whisper  concerning  my  own  wickedness.  In  this  connec- 
tion, bear  in  mind,  Mr.  Grady,  that  Finch  was  a  capital  pen- 
man, and  excelled  in  drawing.  He  could  imitate  my  sig- 
nature with  ease,  and  so  thoroughly  that  an  expert  would 
fail  to  detect  the  forgery." 

"What!  imitate  your  signature  with  ease?" 

"  Yes,  perfectly,  Mr.  Grady." 

"  Poor  Bailey  !  poor  Bailey !"  exclaimed  Grady,  in  a  tone 
of  deep  pity.  "  But  go  on." 

"  Many  a  time,  for  mere  amusement,  he  had  signed  my 
name  to  passes  granting  permission  for  some  of  the  schol- 
ars to  leave  school  before  the  hour  of  dismission.  One  Sat- 
urday morning  there  appeared  in  the  little  weekly  journal 
of  the  county  an  article  entitled, '  The  Efficacy  of  Prayer,' 
said  by  the  editor  to  be  written  by  one  of  the  ablest  men 
in  town.  Certain  words  and  phrases,  certain  turns  of  ex- 
pression— for  every  scholar  has  his  own  peculiarities — and 
certain  scientific  terms,  which  I  was  known  to  use  quite  fre- 
quently, clearly  indicated  that  I,  and  not  another,  was  the 
writer  of  the  article  in  question.  It  was  a  most  laughable 
imitation  of  my  style ;  in  fact,  I  laughed  at  it  myself  as  a 
good  joke.  But,  on  a  closer  inspection  and  perusal,  I  per- 
ceived that  it  might  damage  me  exceedingly ;  for  the  arti- 
cle turned  out  to  be  an  attack  on  religion.  When  the 
clerical  member  of  the  board  of  trustees  afterward  taxed 


84  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

me  with  being  the  writer,  of  course  I  stoutly  denied  the 
authorship,  and  volunteered  to  go  with  him  to  the  office  of 
the  paper  and  prove,  by  the  handwriting  of  the  manuscript, 
that  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Accompanied  by  the 
other  two  trustees,  we  called  upon  the  editor ;  but,  though 
the  manuscript  had  been  destroyed,  the  little  note  giving 
the  real  name  of  the  author  was  preserved.  What  was  my 
astonishment  to  find  the  name  of  Washington  Scroggs  ap- 
pended to  this  note !  The  forgery  was  so  perfect  that  all 
three  trustees  looked  at  me  in  amazement  at  my  audacious 
falsehood.  I  was  horror-stricken.  There  was  but  one  man 
living  who  had  the  ability  to  thoroughly  imitate  my  words, 
my  turns  of  expression,  and  my  chirography,  and  that  man 
was  Myron  Finch.  I  immediately  charged  him  with  the 
forgery ;  but,  with  a  refinement  of  subtle  hypocrisy  remark- 
able in  one  of  his  tender  years,  he  simply  smiled  a  denial, 
and  said  it  was  a  hallucination  of  his  good  old  teacher. 
The  villain  even  condoled  with  me,  and  expressed  his  sin- 
cere regrets  at  my  misfortune.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to 
say,  in  my  presence,  that,  like  Paul,  '  too  much  learning  had 
made  me  mad !' 

"  But  why  dwell  upon  this  rascality  ?  I  was  removed  ; 
Finch  was  appointed  to  my  place." 

"  Good  God  !"  ejaculated  Grady,  "  the  forgery  that  sent 
my  friend  Bailey  to  prison  for  ten  years  was  but  a  worse 
repetition  of  his  treatment  of  you." 

"I  am  not  astonished,"  said  the  placid  little  quack,  "to 
hear  that  the  villany  which  he  practised  on  me  he  repeated, 
on  a  larger  scale,  on  another.  But  the  clergyman,  who  was 
mainly  instrumental  in  my  removal,  and  in  promoting  this 
pious  youth,  paid  a  very  dear  price  for  his  zeal  in  the  cause 
of  true  religion.  The  minister  had  a  niece,  his  companion 
and  house-keeper  (for  he  had  no  family  of  his  own),  who 
was  the  very  apple  of  his  eye.  She  was  his  only  sister's 
child,  and  an  orphan.  Finch  became  an  inmate  of  the 
pastor's  house,  a  teacher  of  the  high-school,  as  I  have  said, 
superintendent  of  the  Sunday-school,  and  a  very  paragon 
of  piety.  Under  a  promise  of  marriage  he  ruined  this 
niece,  and  fled  to  New  York.  She  followed  him,  partly 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  85 

in  the  hope  of  making  him  fulfil  his  promise,  and  partly 
to  hide  her  shame  in  a  great  city.     Her  uncle,  the  minister, 
died  a  few  months  afterward  of  a  broken  heart.     So  now 
you  know  the  early  history  of  Myron  Finch." 
Grady  thanked  Scroggs,  and  took  his  departure. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  She  is  of  so  free,  so  kind,  so  apt,  so  blessed  a  disposition,  she  holds 
it  a  vice,  in  her  goodness,  not  to  do  more  than  she  is  requested." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

WILLIAM  WILDE,  the  banker,  whose  evidence  helped  to 
consign  Bailey  to  State  -  prison,  had  always  been  of  the 
opinion  that  the  whole  trial  had  been,  in  some  inexplicable 
way,  a  miscarriage  of  justice.  He  had  spoken  of  it  at  the 
time  ;  and  his  conversation  concerning  it  had  made  a  deep 
impression  on  the  minds  of  his  two  children,  Walter  and 
p]dith.  So  much  was  this  the  case,  that,  two  years  after 
the  conviction  of  George  Bailey,  Edith  Wilde  had  been 
instrumental,  through  the  influence  of  her  father  and  sev- 
eral of  her  wealthy  relatives,  in  procuring  for  Mrs.  Bailey 
the  position  of  matron  of  a  half-orphan  asylum,  for  which 
she  was  admirably  fitted  by  education  and  high  moral  and 
religious  feeling. 

• 

As  Edith  advanced  in  years  she  became  the  secretary  of 
the  board  of  managers,  and  in  this  capacity  spent  many 
hours  with  the  sad  and  stately  matron,  between  whom  and 
herself  one  of  those  singular  but  permanent  friendships 
arose,  somewhat  unusual  between  two  persons  so  dissimilar 
in  age,  in  social  position,  and  in  all  the  circumstances  of 
life.  Each  knew  instinctively  that  the  other  was  good; 
and  this  goodness  was  a  sort  of  free-masonry  that  bound 
them  together.  It  gladdened  the  heart  of  the  lonely  and 
stricken  mother  to  see  this  bright,  witty,  clever  girl,  with 
her  clear,  pale,  healthy  face,  and  large,  frank,  wide-open, 
gray  eye,  come  gracefully  and  affectionately  to  her  private 
room  in  the  asylum  to  have  a  "private  chat."  And  the 
motherless  girl  loved  Mrs.  Bailey  as  though  she  were  in 


86  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

reality  her  mother.  Many  and  many  a  time  the  old  lady 
spoke  of  her  darling  George — how  brave,  how  strong,  how 
good,  how  tender  he  was — until  the  tears  would  trickle 
down  Edith  "Wilde's  cheeks  in  sympathy  for  the  lonely,  be- 
reaved woman.  She  was  never  tired  talking  of  her  son. 
The  young  girl  would  kiss  and  soothe  the  matron,  and  tell 
her  that  she  Vould  be  to  her  a  daughter.  In  every  way 
possible  Edith  made  Mrs.  Bailey's  home  in  the  asylum  com- 
fortable. Not  a  week  passed  that  she  did  not  visit  her  once 
or  twice,  and  these  visits  were  to  her  a  source  of  sweet 
consolation. 

But  Mrs.  Bailey  was  broken  in  health.  At  no  period  of 
her  life  had  she  been  a  strong  woman,  and  the  death  of 
her  husband,  followed  so  soon  by  the  terrible  misfortune 
of  her  son,  hastened  the  consumption  which  was  hereditary 
in  her  family.  During  the  last  three  or  four  years  of  her 
life  she  could  hear  no  account  of  George,  for,  as  already 
stated,  her  letters  to  him  were  intercepted  and  destroyed. 
Shortly  after  her  appointment  as  matron  John  Grady 
ceased  to  call  upon  her,  for  the  very  good  reason  that  he 
had  left  the  city,  owing  to  the  machinations  of  Myron 
Finch. 

Mrs.  Bailey  grew  weaker  and  weaker  day  by  day,  until 
at  last  she  was  confined  to  her  room,  unable  to  attend  to 
her  duties ;  and  every  day  Edith  Wilde  called,  and  spent 
two  or  three  hours  with  the  invalid,  either  in  arranging  the 
duties  of  the  subordinates  of  the  asylum,  or  conversing  and 
reading  aloud  to  amuse  and  comfort  her. 

"  How  do  you  feel  to-day,  Mrs.  Bailey  ?  Is  your  cough 
easier?  Let  me  just  raise  that  pillow  a  little — so  :  now  you 
feel  more  comfortable,"  were  the  words  with  which  Edith 
accosted  the  sick  lady. 

"  Yes,  darling,  I  am  easier  to-day.  The  cough  is  leaving 
me  and  my  feet  are  swelling.  I  know  what  that  means; 
but  God's  will  be  done.  You  have  been  such  a  comfort  to 
me,  Edith !  It  seems — it  seems — as  if  He  "  (raising  her 
eyes  to  heaven)  "had  sent  you  to  be  to  me  a  daughter, 
when  for  some  inscrutable  purpose  he  allowed  my  son  to 
be  torn  from  me." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  87 

"  Don't  talk,  dear  Mrs.  Bailey ;  you  will  only  tire  and 
distress  yourself ;"  and  the  sweet  girl  pressed  her  beautiful 
lips  against  the  pale,  wan  forehead  of  her  friend.  "I  will 
read  this  charming  book,  and  you  can  fall  asleep  as  I 
read." 

"No,  no,  my  pet;  I  must  talk  to  you  to-day,  for  the  end 
is  approaching.  I  shall  never  see  my  son — my  good,  no- 
ble son,  who  has  suffered  so  much  unjustly.  Oh !  if  I 
could  but  see  him ;  if  I  could  but  press  his  hand  once — 
only  once;  if  I  could  but  give  him  one  parting  kiss  with 
my  blessing — oh !  if  I  could,  I  would  die  happy.  But  it 
cannot, cannot  be;"  and  the  poor  lady  wrung  her  thin 
hands  in  an  agony  indescribable. 

"  Mrs.  Bailey — dear,  dear  Mrs.  Bailey — please  don't  dis- 
tress yourself ;"  and  Edith  took  the  worn  hand  in  both  of 
hers  and  stroked  it  soothingly. 

"  God's  will  be  done  !  But,  Edith,  remember  this — my 
son  will  be  proved  innocent  before  the  world.  I  know  it. 
With  the  shadow  of  death  before  me,  I  know  it,  I  feel  it ; 
and  this,  too,  is  a  great  comfort." 

"  To  be  sure  he  will ;  the  wicked  cannot  always  go  un- 
punished. Let  me  lift  up  your  head  a  little,  Mrs.  Bailey ; 
it  is  too  low,  and  interferes  with  your  breathing." 

Edith  Wilde  read  —  not  the  charming  book  which  she 
had  brought — but,  at  Mrs.  Bailey's  request,  that  portion  of 
the  Gospel  of  St.  John  which  described  the  sufferings  and 
death  of  the  Saviour.  Edith  had  a  low,  sweet,  penetrating 
voice,  perfectly  musical  and  soothing  in  its  cadences ;  and 
the  grand  event  which  atoned  for  the  sins  of  the  world  was 
read  with  a  dramatic  pathos  that  went  to  the  heart  of  the 
sick  lady. 

"And  so  his  mother  saw  him  die  on  the  cross!  Alas! 
her  grief  was  greater  than  mine,  for  she  had  greater  rea- 
son." This  was  slowly  and  musingly  spoken  by  Mrs.  Bai- 
ley, but  more  in  the  tone  of  soliloquy  than  of  conversation. 
"My  darling  child,"  continued  Mrs.  Bailey,  turning  toward 
Miss  Wilde,  "  all  my  clothes,  papers,  all  George's  things — 
in  a  word,  all  our  little  family  plate  and  trinkets  are  in 
those  two  trunks.  Might  I  leave  them  in  your  charge  ?  for 


88  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

sooner  or  later  he  will  come  to  inquire  for  me,  and  be  will 
come  to  you." 

"Certainly;  I  will  take  charge  of  them  with  pleasure." 
"And,  my  precious  darling,  if  you  find  my  George  hard- 
ened and  vindictive,  owing   to  his  wrongs  and  his  suffer- 
ings, will  you,  for  my  sake,  try —     No,  no — this  is  too 
much!" 

But  the  true  friend  bent  over  the  dying  woman,  and 
said,  "Say  no  more;  I  understand  you.  I  will  be  a  sis- 
ter to  your  son ;"  and,  as  if  to  seal  the  pledge,  she  bent 
down  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"May  God  reward  you,  my  blessed  darling!" 

****** 

Two  days  after  the  conversation  just  recorded  Mrs.  Bai- 
ley died  in  the  arms  of  her  young  friend.  This  event  oc- 
curred about  three  years  before  George  Bailey  was  released 
from  prison. 

On  the  death  of  the  matron,  Edith  "Wilde  continued  to 
take  a  deep  interest  in  the  asylum.  Being  the  only  daugh- 
ter of  a  very  wealthy  banker,  she  had  the  means  of  adding 
to  the  comforts  of  the  orphans,  and  also  the  time  at  her 
disposal  to  personally  see  that  the  children  were  kindly 
treated,  and  provided  with  everything  which  the  board  of 
managers  had  allowed  them.  For  the  past  three  years 
Edith  had  been  constant  in  her  attendance,  and  had  de- 
voted her  time  to  the  reorganization  of  the  school. 

Mr.  William  Wilde  had  received  a  very  superior  educa- 
tion. He  had  been  a  distinguished  graduate  of  the  uni- 
versity ;  and  he  had  been  in  doubt,  for  some  months  after 
his  graduation,  whether  he  would  pursue  the  profession  of 
law  or  medicine,  or  enter  the  banking-house  of  which  his 
maternal  uncle  was  then  the  head.  After  mature  delibera- 
tion he  had  resolved  to  be  a  merchant  and  banker.  His 
talents  and  acquirements  were  such  that  he  would  have 
succeeded  in  any  calling ;  and  bending  the  energies  of  his 
trained  faculties  to  business,  a  few  years  had  placed  him  at 
the  head  of  the  banking-house  in  New  York.  The  house 
had  had  argosies  on  every  sea ;  and  their  mercantile  and 
banking  affairs  had  extended  over  most  of  the  civilized 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  89 

countries  of  the  Old  and  the  New  World.  And  yet,  notwith- 
standing the  pressure  of  the  enormous  business  which  he 
had  to  direct  and  control,  Mr.  Wilde  had  found  time  to  re- 
view the  studies  of  his  youth,  and  to  keep  himself  abreast 
of  the  current  literature  of  the  period.  He  was  passionate- 
ly fond  of  good  poetry,  and  the  "  Lake  Poets  "  were  his  es- 
pecial favorites.  To  this  splendid  education  were  joined  a 
sound  common-sense  and  a  native  craft  (in  its  best  sense) 
which  gave  to  his  varied  attainments  a  pungency  and  crisp- 
ness  that  made  him  a  delightful  companion  in  every  socie- 
ty, lie  was  truly  pious,  without  ostentation  or  bigotry,  and 
really  deserved  the  character  which  had  been  accorded  to 
him  by  all  who  knew  him,  of  a  kind,  Christian  gentleman. 
He  had  always  been  fearless  in  the  discharge  of  every  duty, 
and  as  long  as  he  satisfied  the  promptings  of  his  own  con- 
science he  cared  little  for  the  opinion  of  the  world.  He 
had  been  a  widower  since  Edith  was  ten  and  Walter  eight 
years  of  age.  The  value  of  a  good  education  had  been  so 
thoroughly  appreciated  by  himself  that  he  took  special  care 
of  the  education  of  his  two  children.  Walter  had  gradu- 
ated with  high  honor  from  Columbia  College,  and  had  been 
for  the  past  year  managing  a  branch  house  in  California. 
Edith  had  been  instructed  by  the  best  governesses,  native 
and  foreign.  She  was  a  fine  Latin  and  French  scholar,  and 
knew  a  great  deal  more  of  mathematics  and  the  natural  sci- 
ences than  ladies  know  in  general.  Her  father  had  taken 
care  to  cultivate,  from  her  earliest  years,  a  love  of  literature 
and  history.  In  Mr.  Wilde's  old  age  Edith  was  not  only 
his  beloved  daughter  but  his  friend  and  companion. 

After  dinner  one  day  Mr.  Wilde  and  Edith  were  sitting 
alone  in  the  library,  she  working  with  worsted,  and  he  read- 
ing his  favorite  Wordsworth.  With  his  clear  eye  and  clear 
complexion,  and  flowing,  snowy  beard,  he  was  certainly  a 
handsome  old  gentleman ;  for  vice  had  not  left  a  single  bad 
line  on  his  face,  and  exercise  of  mind  and  body  had  pre- 
served that  wholesomeness  of  countenance  and  elasticity  of 
frame  so  beautiful  to  behold  in  those  who  have  reached  the 
allotted  threescore  and  ten.  Edith  was  rather  below  the 
medium  height,  delicately  and  beautifully  formed,  with  a 


90  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

clear,  pale,  patrician  face,  and  large,  wide-open  gray  eyes,  in- 
dicative of  the  highest  order  of  intelligence.  But  there  was 
a  nameless  grace  and  charm  in  her  whole  person,  which  can 
only  be  accounted  for  by  the  pure  and  lofty  soul  that  dwelt 
within  a  faultless  body. 

Mr.  Wilde,  raising  his  eyes  from  his  book  and  looking 
over  his  glasses,  said, 

"Edith,  do  you  know  that  this  is  your  twenty -third 
birthday  ?" 

"  Yes,  father,  of  course  I  do." 

"  What  would  my  Edith  like  for  a  birthday  present  ?" 
and  Mr.  Wilde  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  little  velvet  box 
and  held  it  out  before  her  eyes,  as  he  said,  "Guess  what 
is  in  it." 

"  I  cannot  guess — how  could  I  ?"  and  there  was  the  slight- 
est possible  shade  of  disappointment  in  her  tone,  which  her 
father's  quick  perception  failed  not  to  observe. 

"  Then  you  wanted  something  else.  I  might  have  known 
that  you  cared  very  little  about  jewellery,"  remarked  Mr. 
Wilde,  in  a  tone  even  of  greater  disappointment  than  that 
of  Edith. 

But  Edith  arose,  kissed  her  father's  forehead,  and  said, 
"  Forgive  me  !  I  am  afraid  I  am  growing  selfish.  I  fear 
you  have  spoiled  me  with  too  much  kindness." 

"Hush,  little  one!  I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  I  am 
only  disappointed  that  I  have  failed  to  divine  your  taste  or 
your  wishes.  But  last  Saturday  I  saw  you  admire  this  dia- 
mond star ;  and,  as  you  are  fond  of  wearing  black,  it  struck 
me  that  it  would  look  well  on  you.  I  perceive,  however, 
that  I  have  no  taste  in  matters  of  this  kind." 

"  You  have  excellent  taste.  The  pin  is  a  perfect  beauty, 
and  I  do  admire  it  very  much;  but — but — " 

"  But  what  ?"  interrupted  Mr.  Wilde. 

"  Nothing  worth  mentioning,"  replied  Edith,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Come,  little  one,  you  must  tell  me  what  has  caused  your 
disappointment." 

"  Well,  if  I  must,  I  must.  I  was  going  to  ask  you  for  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars — just  think  of  it !  and  I  suppose 
you  have  paid  four  times  that  sum  for  this  beautiful  star." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  91 

"  Oh  !  is  that  all '  Why,  you  shall  have  it,  and  twice  as 
much  more  if  you  need  it." 

"But  you  don't  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  with  it." 

"  Nor  do  I  wish  to  know.     Do  with  it  as  you  please." 

Edith  then  told  him  that  she  had  set  her  heart  upon 
giving  the  orphans  a  Thanksgiving  dinner,  with  plum-pud- 
ding and  fruit.  "  The  poor  little  things  only  receive  the  reg- 
ulation-fare, and  a  change  will  delight  their  little  hearts." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Wilde,  "  and  destroy  their  little  stomachs. 
But,  Edith,  seriously,  you  spend  a  great  deal  of  time  in  that 
orphan  asylum.  I  can  understand  your  doing  good,  acting 
as  secretary,  and  all  that,  but  you  actually  do  the  work  of  a 
paid  teacher.  I  am  not  finding  fault ;  but  I  don't  want  you 
to  grow  into  an  ancient  spinster,  my  dear."  This  was  spoken 
— at  least  the  latter  part  of  it — in  a  bantering  tone. 

"  My  dear  father,  ever  since  the  death  of  Mrs.  Bailey  I 
have  continued  to  take  a  profound  interest  in  the  orphans ; 
and  you  know  I  am  a  half-orphan  myself.  This  lady,  next 
to  my  mother,  was  the  best  woman  I  have  ever  known. 
She  was  so  gentle,  so  patient,  so  kind  to  the  children,  even 
to  the  erring  and  wayward,  that  she  often  appeared  to  me 
like  an  incarnate  saint." 

"  Ah !  she  was  the  mother  of  the  young  man  who  was 
sent  to  State-prison  over  ten  years  ago.  He  ought  to  be 
free  by  this  time,  poor  fellow  !  I  believe  in  my  heart  that 
he  never  committed  that  forgery.  He  was  the  victim  of 
some  vile  conspiracy." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  father.  His  mother  told  me  the 
story  over  and  over  again ;  she  informed  me  upon  every 
point  of  his  character.  He  was  frank,  fearless,  and  open  as 
the  day.  No,  no  ;  the  son  of  such  a  mother  never  commit- 
ted an  act  of  forgery." 

"  Here,  little  one,  is  your  check  for  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars,  and  here  is  your  diamond  star.  Let  us  change  the 
subject.  Suppose  you  read  aloud  for  me  for  half  an  hour, 
before  we  retire  for  the  night." 

Edith  had  just  taken  the  book  when  the  servant  handed 
Mr.  Wilde  the  card  of  "  John  Grady,  Editor  and  Proprietor 
of  the  Weekly  Reformer." 


92  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Show  the  gentleman  into  the  library.  Edith,  you  need 
not  leave.  It  is  some  applicant  for  money,  and  I  can  dis- 
pose of  him  in  a  short  time ;  and  then  we  can  go  on  with 
our  reading.  What  arc  you  waiting  for  ?"  said  Mr.  Wilde, 
turning  to  the  colored  waiter. 

"  There  are  two  of  them,  sir." 

"  Show  them  both  in.  Edith,  keep  your  seat.  I  shall 
soon  get  rid  of  them.  I  want  to  hear  you  read ;  for,  for 
some  reason,  the  poetry  is  always  better  when  you  read 
aloud." 

George  Bailey  and  John  Grady  walked  into  Mr.  Wilde's 
library.  Owing  to  the  kindly  care  of  Grady,  Bailey  had 
completely  recovered  from  the  fever  consequent  upon  his 
privations  and  sufferings  during  his  protracted  and  vain  at- 
tempts to  obtain  employment  without  the  necessary  "  city 
reference."  All  traces  of  his  recent  struggle  had  disap- 
peared. He  was  now  attired  in  a  decent  suit  of  black,  which 
showed  to  advantage  the  pallor  of  his  complexion.  In  dress, 
in  bearing,  in  manner  he  had  the  air  of  a  quiet,  dignified 
gentleman.  Bailey's  face  wore  the  indescribable  expression 
of  a  man  who  had  sutfered  a  great  wrong.  The  chief  in- 
gredient of  this  expression  was  sadness ;  and  yet,  with  this 
sadness,  there  was  a  subdued  fierceness  in  his  eye  and  a  set 
determination  in  his  lips,  which  indicated  an  immutable  pur- 
pose that  nothing  but  death  could  destroy.  His  face  was 
difficult  to  read,  because  his  purposes  and  his  passions  were 
under  complete  control. 

"  Be  seated,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Wilde.  "  Mr.  Grady, 
•what  can  I  do  for  you  this  evening?  To  what  do  I  owe 
the  honor  of  this  visit?" 

"Mr.  Wilde,"  replied  Grady,  "allow  me  to  introduce  to 
you  my  friend,  Mr.  George  Bailey." 

At  the  mention  of  Bailey's  name  both  father  and  daugh- 
ter gave  a  slight  start  of  astonishment,  but  Mr.  Wilde  re- 
covered himself  in  a  moment  and  shook  the  returned  con- 
vict cordially  by  the  hand.  "  Edith,  this  is  Mr.  Bailey,  of 
whom  we  were  just  speaking;  Mr.  Bailev,  this  is  my  daugh- 
ter, Miss  Wilde." 

Edith  also  extended  her  hand  cordially  to  the  returned 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  93 

convict,  and  said  she  was  glad  to  see  him  well.  There  was 
a  shade  of  disappointment  in  her  face  as  she  sought  in  vain 
for  some  resemblance  to  his  mother,  whom  she  had  so  truly 
loved  and  so  sadly  mourned.  But  in  the  dark,  pale  coun- 
tenance, strongly  marked,  and  in  the  iron-gray  hair — gray 
not  with  age,  but  with  thought  and  suffering — she  failed 
to  trace  a  single  feature  of  the  fair  and  fragile  lady  whom 
she  had  known  and  cared  for  as  the  matron  of  the  orphan 
asylum. 

"  Mr.  Wilde,"  said  Bailey,  resuming  his  chair,  "  I  have 
called  to  thank  you  and  your  daughter  for  the  great  kind- 
ness which  you  showed  to  my  poor  mother  after  my — my 
— conviction.  Only  for  the  cruelty  of  my  jailers,  I  should 
have  learned  long  ago  how  well  you  had  provided  for  her ; 
and  this  knowledge  would  have  spared  me  many  a  sad  hour 
in  my — solitary  confinement." 

"  We  deserve  no  thanks,  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  Mr.  Wilde, 
"  for  we  did  but  our  duty  by  a  good  woman,  undeservedly 
punished.  Even  had  you  been  guilty,  which  we  did  not  be- 
lieve, we  should  have  treated  your  mother  as  we  did.  How- 
ever, if  there  is  credit  for  the  act,  my  daughter  is  entitled 
to  it:  I  am  not.  You  remember  I  was  a  witness — a  most 
unwilling  one — against  you,  for  I  always  believed  you  the 
victim  of  a  conspiracy — " 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Wilde,  for  those  words,"  interrupted 
Bailey. 

"And  in  telling  your  sad  fate  at  the  dinner-table,  I  aroused 
the  sympathy  of  my  little  daughter,  who  never  rested  un- 
til, with  the  aid  of  some  of  our  influential  friends  and  rel- 
atives, she  had  your  mother  installed  in  a  good  position, 
which  placed  her  beyond  the  reach  of  want  Miss  Wilde 
learned  to  love  your  mother  very  dearly  for  her  own  sake." 

All  the  subdued  fierceness  forsook  Bailey's  eyes,  and  an 
expression  of  exquisite  gratitude  and  tenderness  shone  in 
its  stead,  as  he  looked  the  thanks  to  the  beautiful  girl,  that 
he  could  not  utter.  The  firm  expression  fell  away  from  the 
lips  that  trembled  with  emotion. 

"  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  Edith,  with  the  view  of  saving  him 
from  embarrassment,  "it  is  a  most  singular  coincidence 


94  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

that  my  father  and  I  were  talking  of  your  mother  at  the 
very  moment  of  your  arrival  at  the  door.  As  my  father 
has  just  told  you,  I  was  your  mother's  very  dear  friend. 
I  was  with  her  at  the  time  of  her  death ;  and  she  left  her 
effects,  papers,  etc.,  in  my  charge  for  you  whenever  you 
could  be  found.  She  charged  me  to  give  you  her  blessing, 
and  to  warn  you  not  to  forget  your  God  in  your  misery. 
She  died  with  your  name  on  her  lips." 

In  spite  of  all  Bailey's  efforts  the  tears  welled  up  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  was  obliged  to  turn  his  head  in  order  to  hide 
them. 

Miss  Wilde,  perceiving  Bailey's  emotion,  and  not  wishing 
to  witness  the  tears  of  a  strong  man,  hastily  arose  and  said, 

"  I  shall  go  to  my  room  and  bring  you  the  small  writing- 
desk  containing  the  papers,  pictures,  and  trinkets  which 
Mrs.  Bailey  left  in  my  charge.  The  large  trunk  containing 
her  other  effects  can  be  sent  to  your  home." 

On  the  way  up  to  her  room  Edith  soliloquized  as  fol- 
lows :  "  Mrs.  Bailey  was  right  in  loving  such  a  son.  At  the 
very  mention  of  his  mother's  name  all  that  strange,  sub- 
dued fierceness  left  his  eyes,  and  they  became  as  soft  and 
tender  as  a  woman's.  The  idea  of  a  man  of  that  stamp  be- 
coming a  poor,  paltry  forger !  The  Van  Hesses,  father  and 
daughter,  were  both  idiots ;  the  one  blinded  by  a  narrow 
bigotry,  and  the  other  by  a  selfish  worldliness."  Edith  was 
as  clear-headed  as  her  father,  and  possessed  all  his  keen 
insight  into  human  character. 

She  handed  Bailey  the  writing-desk,  which  he  received 
with  the  simple  words,  "  Thank  you."  His  eyes,  however, 
spoke  volumes,  which  Edith  failed  not  to  read  perfectly. 

Honest  John  Grady  had  sat  a  silent  spectator,  until  a 
general  silence  afforded  him  the  opportunity  for  which  lie 
had  been  patiently  waiting. 

"  Mr.  Wilde,"  said  Grady,  "  my  friend  here  can  find  no 
employment  for  want  of  a  city  reference :  nobody  will  cm- 
ploy  a  returned  convict.  Can't  you,  Mr.  Wilde,  do  some- 
thing to  give  him  a  start  ?" 

"  Hush,  hush,  Mr.  Grady  !"  interrupted  Bailey ;  "  I  would 
not  for  the  world  desecrate  this  hour  by  begging  employ- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  95 

mcnt.  Indeed,  sir,  I  did  not  come  here  to  embarrass  you 
by  asking  work  ;  I  came  simply  for  news  of  my  poor  moth- 
er, and  to  thank  her  benefactors." 

"  But  Mr.  Grady  is  right,"  interposed  Edith ;  "  Mr.  Bai- 
ley must  not  be  permitted  to  starve.  lie  was  wrongfully 
convicted,  father,  as  you  well  know.  He  has  suffered  un- 
justly for  ten  years ;  and  now,  for  his  mother's  sake,  I  ask 
you,  father,  as  a  favor  to  me,  to  procure  him  employment 
of  some  sort." 

"Edith,  my  dear,  I  am  afraid  that  you  do  not  under- 
stand business.  The  only  way  in  which  I  could  find  em- 
ployment for  Mr.  Bailey  is  to  employ  him  in  our  banking- 
house — and  I  have  partners.  Mr.  Bailey  "  (turning  from 
Edith  to  that  gentleman),  "  you  perceive  my  difficulty  ?" 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Wilde,  I  do  perceive  your  difficulty  ;  and  I 
regret  exceedingly  that  my  good,  kind  friend  mentioned 
the  matter.  It  really  pains  me." 

"  Mr.  Bailey  and  Mr.  Wilde,"  said  Edith,  looking  with 
mock  severity  from  one  to  the  other,  "  I  give  you  fair 
warning  that  this  is  my  affair  and — Mr.  Grady's.  I  made 
a  promise  to  Mrs.  Bailey  on  her  dying  bed — no  matter 
what.  Now,  father,  I  do  insist  that  you  explain  the  matter 
to  your  junior  partners,  and  give  Mr.  Bailey  a  position.  I 
will  be  bail  for  his  honesty."  The  last  sentence  was  spoken 
with  a  smile  which  would  have  charmed  the  worst  misan- 
thrope that  ever  breathed.  Its  effect  on  poor  Bailey  may 
be  imagined. 

"  Miss  Wilde,"  said  Bailey,  "  I  do  protest.  I  would 
rather  die  than  have  the  appearance  of  seeking  employment 
in  this  manner." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Wilde,  "  my  daughter  is  right,  as 
she  usually  is — always  is — on  every  moral  question.  Mr.  Bai- 
ley, you  were  an  innocent  man,  unjustly  convicted  and  pun- 
ished, partly  and  unwittingly  on  my  evidence.  As  I  was 
unwillingly  an  instrument  in  the  miscarriage  of  justice,  I 
shall  be  a  willing  instrument  in  aiding  your  restoration  to 
yonr  former  position.  Come  to  the  bank  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, and  I  shall  start  you,  at  first  in  a  humble  place,  from 
which  you  must  work  up  by  means  of  your  own  talents." 


96  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  said  Bailey,  "  that  I  had  not  the  most 
remote  idea,  when  I  came  here,  of  asking  for  employment ; 
but  I  thank  you  and  Miss  Wilde  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart." 

"  All  right,  Bailey,"  interrupted  Grady  ;  "  Miss  Wilde 
and  I  have  done  the  business ;  that  is,  I  blew  the  bellows 
and  she  played  the  music." 

"  One  word  before  we  leave,"  said  Bailey  :  "  Mr.  Wilde 
— Miss  Wilde,  do  you  thoroughly  believe  in  my  innocence  ? 
lias  either  of  you  the  shadow  of  a  doubt?" 

"Mr.  Bailey,"  said  Edith,  hastily,  "you  ought  not  to  ask 
such  a  question.  Do  you  think  that  I  would  recommend 
or  my  father  employ  you,  if  we  had  the  shadow  of  a  sus- 
picion ?  Was  not  your  mother  my  most  intimate  friend  ?" 

"  I  beg  pardon  for  the  question,"  said  Bailey,  "  but,  oh, 
Miss  Wilde,  you  cannot  realize  what  it  has  been  to  live  for 
eleven  years  under  the  black  cloud  of  a  great  crime ;  and  I 
assure  you  that  I  am  far  more  grateful  for  your  implicit  be- 
lief in  my  innocence  than  I  would  have  been  had  your  fa- 
ther by  a  stroke  of  his  pen  made  me  a  millionnaire.  I  can- 
not express  my  gratitude  in  words." 

Bailey  and  Grady  left,  with  the  understanding  that  the 
former  was  to  enter  on  his  new  employment  the  next  morning. 

"  Upon  my  soul ! — pardon  me,  Bailey,  for  swearing — she 
is  a  trump  !  If  I  were  a  young  man,  and  as  good-looking 
as  you,  I  would  forfeit  heaven — God  forgive  me ! — to  pos- 
sess such  a  thorough-bred  woman  as  that  for  a  wife.  She 
reminds  me  of  an  Arabian  courser  —  beautifully  formed, 
and  with  an  eye  as  tender  as  it  is  full  of  fire." 

"  Hush,  Grady,  hush !"  and  George  Bailey  was  silent  al- 
most all  the  way  to  Williamsburgh.  He  soliloquized  in- 
wardly, "  My  mother  died  in  her  arms !  She  obtained  em- 
ployment for  her  !  She  always  believed  in  my  innocence  ! 
She  induced  her  father  to  give  me  work  !  Oh,  my  guardian 
angel !  How  coarse  that  expression  of  Grady's — my  wife  ! 
— any  man's  wife !  She  is  too  good  to  be  the  wife  of  an 
archangel !  How  bright  the  stars  look  to-night !  How 
beautiful  the  whole  heavens  appear !  It  seems  to  me  as  if 
I  were  born  again." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  97 

And  he  was  born  again ;  for  the  spirit  of  love  had  entcr- 
ed  his  heart ;  a  love  which  had  its  origin  in  profound  re- 
spect for  what  was  surpassingly  good ;  a  love  which  neither 
time  nor  distance  could  ever  change.  Blessed  are  the  few 
into  whose  hearts  this  divine  love  enters ! 


CHAPTER  XL 

"  Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  coffined  clay, 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honeyed  lies  of  rhyme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  nor  consecrate  a  crime." — BYRON. 

DURING  George  Bailey's  imprisonment  and  subsequent 
struggles,  Myron  Finch  had  grown  to  be  one  of  the  great 
merchant-princes  of  New  York.  lie  was  a  member  of  the 
leading  clubs,  a  director  in  several  corporations,  and  a  cun- 
ning speculator  in  stocks  and  real  estate.  He  was  the 
owner  of  a  beautiful  steam-yacht,  in  which  he  gave  mag- 
nificent entertainments  to  his  friends,  who  were  the  politi- 
cal controllers  of  legislatures  and  conventions,  or  the  gigan- 
tic financial  operators  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  Finch  was 
one  of  the  "  Ring,"  whose  approving  nod  was  worth  a  fort- 
une, or  whose  adverse  frown  was  ruin  to  an  enemy.  He 
kept  fine  horses ;  he  lived  luxuriously ;  he  fared  sumptu- 
ously every  day ;  and  enjoyed  with  a  rare  relish  all  the 
good  things  of  this  life.  He  had  long  ago  made  him- 
self the  real  head  of  the  firm  of  Van  Hess  &  Co.,  and  had 
very  quietly  but  decisively  elbowed  his  father-in-law  into 
an  inferior  place,  with  the  remark,  "  My  dear  sir,  at  your 
time  of  life  this  work  is  too  much  for  you."  And  Mr. 
Jacob  Van  Hess,  in  no  little  awe  of  this  resolute  son-in- 
law,  had  very  tamely  submitted  to  take  a  back  seat  in  his 
own  counting-house.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  Mr.  Van 
Hess  had  become  very  much  afraid  of  Mr.  Myron  Finch. 
The  old  gentleman  loved  his  daughter  even  more  than  his 
business ;  and  he  had  discovered,  within  six  months  after 
her  marriage,  that  she  was  wedded  to  a  cold,  cunning,  un- 
scrupulous scoundrel.  No  sooner  had  he.  been  made  a 

7 


98  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

partner,  no  sooner  had  the  honey  moon  been  over,  than 
Myron  Finch  flung  aside  the  mask  of  religion  and  temper- 
ance, with  which  he  had  won  the  confidence  of  Mr.  Van 
Hess,  and  gave  loose  rein  to  the  infidelity  and  to  the  baser 
passions  of  his  evil  nature.  For  the  sake  of  Grace,  Mr. 
Jacob  Van  Hess  smothered  his  anger,  and  endured  the 
domination  of  a  man  whom  he  despised  and  loathed. 
Both  father  and  daughter  knew  him  to  be  simply  a  polite 
and  smiling  fiend,  without  love,  without  gratitude,  without 
a  single  virtue.  His  master-passion  was  his  intense  desire 
for  money ;  because  money  alone  could  purchase  the  gross 
sensual  pleasures  in  which  his  frigid  soul  seemed  to  take 
delight.  He  was  the  incarnation  of  selfishness. 

Time  has  been  very  gentle  with  Mr.  Myron  Finch.  Dur- 
ing the  eleven  years  that  have  passed  away  since  we  first 
introduced  him  to  the  reader  he  has  altered  but  little  in 
appearance.  He  has  become  inclined  to  corpulency,  and 
the  pale  hair  has  been  slightly  worn  away  from  his  tem- 
ples. A  puffiness,  too,  has  appeared  about  his  nether  eye- 
lid, indicative  of  intemperance  and  disease. 

But  if  the  husband  has  remained  comparatively  un- 
changed, great  indeed,  and  pitiful  to  behold,  is  the  change 
in  the  poor  wife,  the  once  petted  and  spoiled  darling  of 
fortune.  Mrs.  Myron  Finch  has  worn  for  years  the  timid, 
frightened  expression  always  found  in  the  faces  of  Weak 
women  who  are  constantly  afraid  of  brutal  husbands. 
"Whatever  little  spirit  she  had  originally  possessed  has 
been  completely  crushed  out  of  her  by  stern,  cool,  system- 
atic ill  -  treatment  and  unmitigated  cruelty.  For  a  long 
time  she  had  foolishly  endeavored  to  hide  her  misery  from 
her  father,  and  her  father  had  dreaded  to  speak  to  her  con- 
cerning her  unhappiness.  The  same  fear  of  the  world  (her 
world  of  fashion)  that  had  caused  her  to  desert  George  Bai- 
ley in  his  time  of  trouble  and  disgrace,  had  caused  her  to 
submit  in  silence  to  the  inhumanity  of  Finch.  She  had 
borne  the  villain  three  children,  and  for  their  sakes,  as  well 
as  for  the  sake  of  her  own  worldly  pride,  she  had  suffered 
wrongs  enough  to  have  driven  a  stronger  woman  to  suicide 
or  murder.  Finch  had  completely  subdued  her.  Thin, 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  99 

dark,  sickly,  with  dark  lines  around  her  eyes,  she  looked 
care-worn,  faded,  and  prematurely  old. 

In  all  her  misery  the  poor  woman  had  nursed  in  her 
heart  the  image  of  the  strong,  frank,  fearless  youth  who 
had  loved  her  with  the  love  of  a  true  and  loyal  nature. 
In  one  of  his  drunken,  angry  fits,  while  abusing  and  beat- 
ing her,  Finch  had  boasted  that  he  was  the  man  who  had 
sent  her  lover  to  State-prison.  From  that  day  forward  she 
had  felt  that  George  Bailey  was  an  innocent  man,  and  the 
victim  of  a  foul  conspiracy.  When  she  contrasted  the  two 
men  her  remorse  was  unbounded,  and  her  old  love  revived 
with  a  strength  that  she  did  not  even  try  to  subdue. 

A  few  days  after  the  events  recorded  in  the  last  chapter 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Myron  Finch  were  sitting  alone  in  the  dining- 
room,  each  reading  a  morning  newspaper.  Breakfast  was 
finished,  and  the  children  had  gone  to  the  nursery.  Sud- 
denly the  husband  dropped  his  paper,  and,  turning  to  his 
wife  with  a  savage  scowl  on  his  brows,  said, 

"  See  here ;  your  old  lover,  George  Bailey,  d — n  him  !  has 
just  turned  up  in  the  city.  Quin  saw  him  yesterday  in 
the  banking-house  of  Warrenton,  Wilde  &  Co.  Do  you 
hear  me,  d — n  you  ?  WThat  are  you  dreaming  about,  you 
idiot  ?  —  about  your  old  sweetheart,  eh  ?  Remember,  you 
must  never  see  or  speak  to  him.  Don't  fancy  that  I  am 
jealous  of  such  a  thing  as  you.  But  this  man  may  call  to 
see  you,  or  to  inquire  about  your  father,  or  his  mother,  or 
something  of  the  sort.  You  must  never  see  him ;  for  the 
day  that  you  do  I  shall  separate  from  you  and  obtain  a 
divorce." 

To  this  tirade  Grace  made  no  reply :  she  seemed  scared, 
and  trembled  from  head  to  foot ;  and  her  aspect  was  that 
of  a  frightened  bird  when  newly  captured. 

"  I  declare,"  continued  the  ruffian,  "  that  the  woman  is 
trembling  all  over !"  and  changing  his  position  so  as  to  face 
his  wife,  he  commenced  to  taunt  her. 

"  So  you  married  me  to  cover  the  disgrace  of  an  engage- 
ment to  a  convict,  did  you  ?  You  married  me  because  I 
was  a  pious  young  man,  and  went  to  church  twice  everv 
Sunday,  didn't  you  ?  And  1  married  you  because  I  loved 


100  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

your  old  father's  money-bags,  eh?  Wasn't  it  a  fair  ex- 
change, ray  precious?" 

Finch  had  often  gone  farther  than  this  in  his  speech  be- 
fore now,  and  had  even  repeatedly  struck  her  in  his  drunk- 
en state ;  but  never  in  his  sober  senses  had  he  ventured  to 
taunt  his  wife  in  this  vile  way ;  for  no  one  could  ever  ac- 
cuse him  of  being  a  fool,  except  in  so  far  as  all  knaves  are 
fools.  There  were  feelings  surging  in  the  heart  of  Mr.s. 
Finch,  aroused  by  the  allusions  to  her  first  love,  which  her 
husband  did  not  comprehend,  and  which,  had  he  known, 
would  have  curbed  the  license  of  his  speech.  He  failed  to 
see  that  he  was  fast  driving  his  wife  to  desperation.  A 
hectic  flush  overspread  her  thin  cheek,  and  a  semblance  of 
the  old  brilliancy  shone  in  her  eyes,  imparting  for  a  mo- 
ment a  portion  of  the  former  beauty  for  which  she  had 
been  remarkable. 

"  Woman,  I  say,  do  you  hear  me  ?" 

But  Grace's  mind  was  far  away,  and  for  a  minute  or  two 
she  seemed  to  have  lost  or  forgotten  her  fear  of  the  tyrant. 
Finch  moved  his  chair  close  to  her  and  shook  his  clinched 
fist  in  her  face,  as  he  said, 

"  Mrs.  Finch,  have  you  lost  your  speech  ? — are  you  mad  ? 
If  you  don't  pay  more  attention  to  what  I  say  I'll  choke 
the  life  out  of  you !" 

Still  Grace  neither  seemed  to  hear  nor  heed  him.  She 
sat  like  one  dazed,  or  perhaps  like  one  who  was  slowly 
making  up  his  mind,  and  cared  no  more  for  her  husband's 
violence  at  this  moment  than  for  the  howling  of  the  idle 
wind.  Transported  with  rage  at  her  continued  silence,  the 
brute  seized  her  by  the  throat  with  one  hand,  and  smote 
her  repeatedly  on  the  face  with  the  other. 

Myron  Finch  went  too  far  this  morning.  He  could  not 
see  the  effect  of  Bailey's  return  on  a  mind  that  had  brood- 
ed about  him  ever  since  she  had  discovered  his  innocence. 
With  a  dignity  which  Finch  had  never  before  witnessed, 
Grace  simply  said, 

"  Hands  off,  coward !"  and  seized  a  pair  of  large  scis- 
sors which  lay  near  her,  and  holding  the  point  out  before 
his  face,  said,  "  If  ever  you  touch  me  again  I  shall  kill  you 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  101 

on  the  spot !  I  hate  you,  I  despise  you,  I  scorn  you  !  Sep- 
arate— obtain  your  divorce,  you  contemptible  wife-beater !" 

Myron  Finch,  at  this  exhibition  of  spirit  on  the  part  of 
his  wife,  turned  deadly  pale.  He  was  thoroughly  cowed. 
It  was  now  his  turn  to  fear  the  woman  whom  he  had  so 
long  despised  and  bullied.  He  was  first  amazed,  then  awed, 
and  finally  frightened.  Had  a  dead  woman  arisen  from 
the  grave  and  threatened  him,  he  could  not  have  been  more 
astonished.  But,  if  cowardly,  Finch  was  cunning ;  and  no 
man  knew  better  than  he  how  to  adapt  his  conduct  to  the 
circumstances  of  the  hour. 

"Grace,  you  exasperated  me  beyond  endurance.  For- 
give me ;  in  my  passion  I  scarcely  knew  what  I  did.  I 
was  jealous  of  your  old  lover." 

"  No,  sir ;  you  were  not  jealous,  and  you  need  not  lie 
about  it.  You  cannot  deceive  me,  Mr.  Finch.  I  hate  you ; 
and  you  had  better  go,  or  I  may  be  tempted  to  stab  to  the 
heart  the  father  of  my  children.  Go,  go,  go !  you  coward- 
ly villain !  I  have  borne  your  cruelty  for  eleven  years ;  I 
shall  bear  it  no  longer.  Leave  me !  leave  me,  or  I  shall  not 
be  responsible  for  my  acts !" 

Myron  Finch  retired,  with  the  expression  of  a  baffled 
fiend  marked  on  every  line  of  his  pale,  flabby  face. 

For  hours  after  her  husband  had  left,  Grace  sat  in  the 
rocking-chair,  with  her  head  thrown  back  and  her  eyes 
closed.  The  only  signs  to  indicate  that  she  was  not  asleep 
were  frequent  tremblings  of  the  lips,  twitchings  of  the  eye- 
lids, and  deeply  marked  lines  between  the  brows.  The  red 
marks  of  Finch's  brutal  blows  were  plainly  visible  on  her 
cheeks.  At  length  she  arose  and  commenced  walking  back- 
ward and  forward,  as  men  frequently  do  when  agitated  with 
unhappy  thoughts — and,  clasping  her  hands  in  a  sort  of 
speechless  agony,  she  murmured,  in  a  tone  of  indescribable 
grief  and  remorse, 

"And  for  that  brute  I  abandoned  to  his  fate  the  truest, 
bravest  heart  that  woman  ever  won !  Even  had  George 
Bailey  been  guilty  of  the  crime  of  which  he  was  convicted, 
a  life  in  State-prison  with  him  would  have  been  infinitely 
preferable  to  a  life  in  a  palace  with  such  a  fiend  as  Finch. 


102  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Oh !  oh !  oh !  my  punishment  is  greater  than  I  can  bear ! 
But  I  deserve  it  all — I  deserve  it  all !" 

Tears  came  to  the  relief  of  the  suffering  woman.  Moan- 
ing and  weeping,  she  continued  her  monotonous  walk,  ever 
murmuring,  "  Oh !  oh!  oh!  I  deserve  it  all  —  I  deserve  it 
all !  But  I  must  find  him — I  must  find  him."  Then  she 
cast  herself  heavily  down  in  the  chair,  and,  covering  her 
face  with  both  her  hands,  she  said,  "  But  how  shall  I  ever 
face  him  ?  I  would  give  worlds  to  look  at  him  once  more ; 
but  I  dare  not — I  dare  not !  However,  I  must  see  him  and 
ask  his  pardon.  I  have  always  loved  him.  I  might  have 
forgotten  him,  if  that  brutal  fiend  Finch  had  ever  treated 
me  with  common  decency.  But  now  my  husband  and  I 
are  as  far  apart  as  the  poles !"  Again  Grace  arose,  and 
strode  back  and  forth  like  an  angry  man.  An  unwonted 
fire  gleamed  in  her  eyes,  and  her  brow  was  knit  with  an 
energy  born  of  her  new  resolution.  "  I  shall  see  my  father 
and  tell  him  all — my  good,  kind  father,  who  has  borne  with 
Finch  these  weary  years  for  my  sake." 

Such  was  her  eagerness  to  carry  out  her  determination 
that  she  rushed  up  to  her  room,  hastily  dressed  herself  for 
the  street,  and  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes  was  in  an  omni- 
bus on  her  way  down  to  her  father's  office. 

Happily  Finch  was  not  in  the  counting-house  when  Grace 
arrived,  or  there  might  have  been  a  scene,  for  the  lady's 
soul  was  on  fire,  and  had  reached  that  condition  in  which 
regard  for  her  world  of  fashionable  society  would  have  had 
no  weight  with  her  whatever.  Finch's  blows  were  still  tin- 
gling in  her  face,  and  the  very  memory  of  them  maddened 
her — at  least  she  fancied  so.  But  perhaps,  after  all,  mem- 
ories of  George  Bailey  spurred  her  on  more  than  she  was 
aware  of ;  or,  at  any  rate,  she  was  now  moved  by  a  combi- 
nation of  motives. 

When  father  and  daughter  were  seated  alone  in  the  pri- 
vate inner  office,  the  former  said, 

"  Well,  Grace,  my  dear,  this  visit  at  noonday  is  some- 
thing very  unusual ;"  and  the  old  gentleman  looked  uneas- 
ily at  the  door,  in  fear  that  Finch  might  enter  and  find 
them  together. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  103 

"  You  need  not  glance  so  uneasily  at  the  door.  Let  him 
enter — let  him  hear  all  I  have  to  say  !  Father,  I  am  going 
home  to  you  with  my  children  to-night.  I  shall  not  sleep 
another  night  under  Finch's  roof.  I  could  not  wait  until 
evening — my  impatience  would  have  killed  me.  See  these 
marks  on  my  face :  the  fiend  struck  me  this  morning  with 
his  hand :  he  struck  me  moral  blows  that  were  far  worse, 
lie  said  that  I  only  married  him  to  hide  the  disgrace  of  my 
engagement  with  a  convicted  forger,  and  that  he  married 
me  for  my  father's  money-bags !" 

"  Grace !  Grace  !"  groaned  the  father,  "  I  have  suspected 
this  for  years,  and  the  thought  of  it  has  been  killing  me  by 
inches.  Oh,  Grace,  you  cannot  imagine  what  I  have  borne 
from  this  man  for  your  sake  !" 

"  I  know  it,  father — I  know  it  only  too  well.  He  has 
bullied  and  abused  you ;  taken  the  business  out  of  your 
hands  and  driven  you  into  a  corner ;  and  for  my  sake  you 
have  endured  it  all.  Know,  then,  that  from  the  first  month 
of  our  marriage  he  has  ill-used  me.  I  tried  to  hide  it  from 
you  and  the  world  through  a  false  pride ;  but  to-day,  in  his 
sober  senses,  he  transcended  his  previous  brutality.  Know, 
too,  dear  father,  that  in  one  of  his  drunken  fits  he  confessed 
and  boasted  that  George  Bailey  was  an  innocent  man,  and 
had  been  sent  to  State-prison  by  his  instrumentality." 

"  What !  what !  My  God  !  my  God !  This  is  the  worst 
blow  of  all !  What !  boasted  that  he  was  instrumental  in 
sending  an  innocent  man  to  State-prison  for  ten  years?  Oh 
no,  no !  this  was  only  the  idle,  lying  boast  of  a  wicked  man." 

"  Father,  Bailey  was  innocent,  and  I  must  ask  his  for- 
giveness." 

Jacob  Van  Iless's  head  fell  forward  on  his  chest,  and 
cither  he  did  not  hear  or  heed  what  Grace  had  said.  The 
old  man  seemed  lost  in  deep  thought,  and  his  face  wore  an 
expression  of  profound  dismay. 

"  I  had  a  note  this  morning,"  he  said,  "  from  George 
Bailey." 

"  You  had  ? — what  about  ?"  eagerly  interrupted  Grace. 

"  Here  it  is,"  replied  Mr.  Van  Hess,  pulling  the  note  out 
of  his  pocket ;  "  read  for  yourself." 


104  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

At  sight  of  the  bold,  characteristic  handwriting,  which 
she  knew  so  well,  Grace's  face  and  neck  turned  the  color  of 
scarlet.  This  was  what  she  read  : 

"  Warrenton,  Wilde  &  Co., 

"  New  York,  December  12th,  18 — . 

"JACOB  VAN  HESS,  ESQ.,  Sir,  —  Having  recovered  the 
effects  of  my  late  mother,  and  failing  to  find  among  her  pa- 
pers the  receipt  for  the  fifteen  hundred  dollars  which  she 
paid  you  on  account  of  the  forged  check  that  liquidated 
my  debt  to  Mr.  William  "Wilde,  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking 
you,  as  a  matter  of  simple  justice,  to  forward  me  a  receipt, 
or  to  accord  me  the  privilege  of  an  explanation.  You  can 
readily  understand  my  anxiety  concerning  this  receipt. 

"  Truly  yours,  etc.,         GEORGE  BAILEY." 

"  Did  you  give  his  mother  a  receipt  at  the  time  ?"  asked 
Grace. 

"  Very  likely  I  did.  But  you  know  how  careless  women 
usually  are  in  matters  of  this  kind." 

"  My  dear  father,  please  write  as  I  dictate.  Do  it  for 
me ;  because  you  can  furnish  me  the  opportunity  to  beg 
Mr.  Bailey's  pardon." 

Mr.  Van  Hess  seized  a  pen  and  wrote  George  Bailey  an 
invitation  to  call  at  his  residence  that  evening. 

Father  and  daughter  then  discussed  their  plans  for  the 
future.  Grace  and  the  children  were  to  leave  Finch  forever, 
and  make  their  home  with  Mr.  Van  Hess.  Mr.  Van  Hess 
was  to  dissolve  the  partnership  and  retire  from  business. 
When  this  matter  had  been  finally  determined  upon,  both 
felt  happier  than  they  had  felt  for  many  years. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  A  man  of  sense  may  love  like  a  madman  but  never  like  a  fool." 

LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

To  the  sad,  solitary  George  Bailey,  Edith  Wilde  seemed 
something  more  than  human.  To  say  that  he  thought  of 
her  day  and  night  would  but  faintly  convey  an  idea  of  his 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  105 

feelings  toward  her.  It  was  more  than  love ;  it  was  worship. 
He  rarely  reflected  on  her  loveliness,  but  always  on  her  good- 
ness. During  the  past  eleven  years  he  had  seen  and  experi- 
enced so  much  ingratitude,  wickedness,  and  cruelty,  that  he 
had  been  reduced  almost  to  a  state  of  atheism,  and  had  be- 
gun to  have  a  firm  belief  in  human  depravity.  Nothing  but 
his  superior  education  and  sound  common-sense  had  prevent- 
ed his  falling  into  the  haunts  of  thieves  and  burglars,  and 
becoming,  at  the  invitation  of  Williams,  their  organizer  and 
captain.  In  Bailey's  character  there  was  a  substratum  of 
high  honor  and  pure  morality  which  came  to  him  by  inheri- 
tance, and  had  been  developed  by  that  best  of  all  teachers,  a 
wise,  educated  mother.  But  in  the  intervention  of  God  in 
human  affairs  he  had  lost  all  faith ;  for  he  had  seen  the  in- 
nocent unjustly  punished  and  the  wicked  "nourishing  like  a 
green  bay-tree."  Into  the  darkness  of  his  soul  at  this  time 
the  charity  and  goodness  of  Edith  Wilde  shed  brilliant  rays 
of  light,  which  slowly  and  gradually  dispelled  the  dark  and 
gloomy  scepticism  that  was  surely  corroding  his  better  nat- 
ure. Through  Edith's  eyes  he  fancied  that  he  saw  his  moth- 
er's soul.  In  his  thoughts  Edith's  image  was  always  coupled 
with  that  of  the  Saviour.  His  first  thought  every  morning, 
his  last  thought  every  night,  was  a  prayer  to  God  for  her 
happiness.  And  this  was  the  first  prayer  which  Bailey  had 
uttered  since  the  day  of  his  unjust  conviction.  The  simple 
act  of  thinking  about  a  good  woman  brought  him  back  to 
a  knowledge  of  his  Creator.  The  face,  the  form,  the  eyes, 
the  smile,  the  grace,  and  the  very  tone  of  Edith's  voice  were 
all  indelibly  impressed  upon  his  memory.  The  pent-up  pas- 
sion, the  exquisite  tenderness  of  his  nature  went  forth  toward 
her  with  an  irresistible  energy,  like  the  strong,  steady,  silent 
flow  of  a  mighty  river. 

In  the  banking-house,  Bailey,  in  his  humble  situation,  soon 
won  the  approbation  of  his  employers.  He  was  quiet  and 
industrious,  always  willing  and  ready  to  perform  any  work 
which  might  be  assigned  him ;  eager  to  assist  his  fellow- 
clerks  when  behind-hand,  and  anxious  to  do  their  work  and 
his  own  whenever  any  of  the  younger  men  wished  a  holiday. 
He  was  the  first  in  the  office  in  the  morning,  the  last  to  leave 


106  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

in  the  evening.  None  of  his  fellow-clerks  knew  his  history ; 
but  they  all  liked  the  cold,  grave,  sad  man  who  was  never 
seen  to  smile.  His  day's  work  over,  he  sought  his  quiet 
room  in  Grady's  house,  and  spent  the  evening  in  reading 
and  studying,  and  thinking  of  Edith  Wilde.  His  only 
pleasure  he  took  on  Sunday.  As  regularly  as  the  Sunday 
came,  he  dressed  himself  in  a  soher  suit  of  black,  and,  no 
matter  what  was  the  condition  of  the  weather,  went  to  the 
Episcopal  church  which  Mr.  Wilde  and  Edith  attended. 
Had  her  church  been  a  Mohammedan  mosque,  Bailey  would 
have  gone  to  it  in  preference  to  any  other,  because  it  con- 
tained the  one  being  in  all  the  universe  whom  he  adored. 
He  was  placed  in  the  gallery  by  the  sexton,  in  such  a  po- 
sition that  he  could  see  her  without  being  seen  himself.  He 
looked  forward  all  the  week  to  Sunday,  counting  the  hours 
until  he  could  see  her  again.  The  Episcopal  service  ap- 
peared to  him  sublimely  beautiful,  because,  in  some  myste- 
rious way,  she  seemed  to  him  the  very  incarnation  of  the 
litany  and  of  the  teaching  of  Christ.  As  he  listened  to  the 
fine  bass  voice  of  the  rector,  uttering  the  grand  thoughts  of 
"  The  General  Supplication  " — "  From  all  blindness  of  heart, 
from  pride,  vainglory,  and  hypocrisy ;  from  envy,  hatred 
and  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness,  Good  Lord  deliver  us  " — 
and  caught  her  silver  tone  in  the  response  (for,  like  all  who 
have  suffered  long  from  solitary  confinement,  his  sight  and 
hearing  were  preternaturally  acute),  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth  were  revealed  to  him ;  and  because  she  was  good,  he 
determined  with  all  his  might  to  be  good  likewise.  When 
the  minister  came  to  the  words,  "  That  it  may  please  Thee 
to  forgive  our  enemies,  persecutors,  and  slanderers,  and  to 
turn  their  hearts,"  Bailey  could  not  and  did  not  respond, 
"  We  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  Good  Lord."  He  had  brood- 
ed over  his  revenge  so  long  and  so  steadily  that  it  had  be- 
come a  part  of  his  nature.  To  punish  Finch  was  the  great 
aim  of  his  existence.  He  could  be  a  Christian  for  Edith's 
sake  in  all  things  but  this.  By  a  sort  of  perverse  logic  he 
had  reasoned  himself  into  the  belief  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
assist  in  carrying  out  the  vengeance  of  Heaven  against  his 
moral  assassin.  His  human  love  was  leading  him  toward 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  107 

his  God ;  and  a  time  came  when  he  would  freely  have  given 
half  the  remaining  years  of  his  life  to  kneel  by  Edith 
Wilde's  side  and  repeat  with  her  those  beautiful  prayers  of 
the  Church.  His  vindictive  passion  was  ever  tugging  at  his 
newly-awakened  spiritual  aspirations,  and  dragging  him  down 
into  a  quagmire  of  wicked  thoughts  and  hopes.  The  spirits 
of  good  and  evil  were  fiercely  contending  in  Bailey's  heart. 

This  was  the  state  of  George  Bailey's  mind  when  he  re- 
ceived the  reply  from  Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess,  making  an  ap- 
pointment for  an  interview  that  evening.  Bailey,  in  the 
prosecution  of  his  plans  for  revenge  on  Finch,  was  greatly 
disappointed  at  not  finding  the  receipt  for  the  fifteen  hun- 
dred dollars ;  and  after  mature  deliberation  he  had  resolved 
to  obtain  it,  for  he  knew  well  its  value  in  the  future.  He 
was  aware  that  he  was  asking  no  favor ;  he  was  only  asking 
for  his  right.  Besides,  he  had  never  entertained  bitter  feel- 
ings toward  Mr.  Van  Hess ;  nay,  on  the  contrary,  he  had 
remembered  him  with  gratitude  for  the  favors  he  had  con- 
ferred up  to  the  period  of  his  conviction.  He  had  truly 
reasoned,  If  a  learned  judge  and  twelve  jurymen  had  been 
deceived  by  the  conspiracy,  why  not  Mr.  Van  Hess  and  his 
daughter  ?  In  his  heart  he  could  not  blame  them. 

As  he  slowly  and  meditatively  walked  toward  the  house 
in  which  he  had  wooed  and  won  the  love  of  the  beautiful 
heiress  eleven  years  before,  what  a  contrast  he  presented  to 
the  frank,  open,  joyous  youth  who,  in  the  exhilaration  of 
his  spirits,  had  seemed  to  spurn  the  very  earth  on  that  raw 
March  day !  He  now  wore  the  sad,  reticent  look  of  the 
prison.  His  expression  of  face  was  such  that  no  man  could 
now  expect  his  confidence.  "Ah,"  he  muttered,  with  a  look 
of  pain,  "  this  is  the  house ;  I  surely  ought  to  know  it." 

When  admitted  into  the  parlor,  and  while  waiting  a  few 
minutes  for  his  host,  Bailey  cast  his  eyes  around  the  rooms 
and  glanced  at  the  well-remembered  pictures  and  statuary. 
Everything  appeared  precisely  as  they  were  eleven  years 
ago.  He  felt  by  contrast  a  terrible  change  in  himself.  He 
had  not  much  time  for  reflection,  for  Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess 
entered  the  parlor  at  this  moment,  and  approached  Bailey 
as  if  for  the  purpose  of  shaking  his  hand ;  but  the  manner 


108  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

of  the  latter  was  so  frigid  and  formal,  as  he  arose  from  his 
chair  and  bowed,  that  the  old  gentleman  paused  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  greatly  embarrassed,  and  hardly  knew 
what  to  say.  But  Bailey  came  to  his  relief  by  saying,  in  a 
tone  coldly  polite, 

"  Mr.  Van  Hess,  you  will  please  pardon  my  writing  to 
you  for  the  receipt ;  but  as  it  was  indispensable  to  me,  and 
mine  by  right,  I  took  the  great  liberty  of  addressing  you  a 
note." 

"  No,  no ;  it — it  was  not  a  liberty  at  all.  I — I — am  glad 
to  give  you  the  receipt,"  said  Mr.  Van  Hess,  still  more  em- 
barrassed, for  he  had  not  anticipated  Bailey's  frigid  polite- 
ness. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Van  Hess.  I  knew  that  you  would  not 
refuse  to  do  an  act  of  justice." 

The  old  gentleman  having  handed  Bailey  the  receipt,  and 
having  in  some  measure  regained  his  composure,  went  up 
to  Bailey,  and,  extending  his  hand,  said, 

"Forgive  me,  George;  I  unwittingly  did  you  a  great 
wrong.  I  have  suspected  it  for  a  long  time,  but  never 
knew  it  for  certain  until  my  daughter  told  me  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  replied  Bailey,  coldly ; 
"  you  acted  as  you  thought  justly  at  the  time.  I  have 
never  blamed  you." 

"  Say,  at  least,  Mr.  Bailey,"  pleaded  the  old  man,  "  that 
you  forgive  me,  even  if  you  have  nothing  to  forgive,  for  it 
will  be  a  great  relief  to  ray  conscience.  Oh,  Mr.  Bailey,  I 
made  a  fearful  mistake,  an  irreparable  blunder,  worse  than 
a  crime !" 

"  If  you  desire  me  to  repeat  the  words,  I  can  easily  do 
so :  if  I  have  anything  to  forgive,  I  freely  forgive  you." 
His  manner  and  his  words  were  icy,  and  cut  Mr.  Van  Hess 
to  the  quick.  It  was  unintentional  on  Bailey's  part.  The 
memory  of  that  scene  in  the  counting-house,  when  the 
forged  check  and  the  receipt  for  it  were  brought  home  to 
him,  was  vividly  portrayed  in  his  mind,  never  to  be  effaced, 
and  the  sight  of  Mr.  Van  Hess  pained  him. 

George  had  arisen  to  take  his  leave,  when  the  old  gentle- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  109 

man  said,  " Mr.  Bailey,  please  be  seated;  there  is  another 
who  wishes  to  be  forgiven;"  and  before  Bailey  had  time 
to  make  any  reply  Mr.  Van  Hess  had  left  the  parlor.  In 
a  few  minutes  a  lady  entered  the  room,  lividly  pale,  thin 
and  worn,  whom  Bailey  at  the  first  glance  failed  to  recog- 
nize. After  a  closer  inspection  he  recognized  the  once 
beautiful  Grace,  the  idol  of  his  youthful  affections.  His 
bow  to  her  was,  if  possible,  more  frigid  than  the  one  he 
had  given  her  father.  The  whole  interview  was  so  painful 
to  him  that  he  now  regretted  having  sought  for  the  receipt. 
Of  course,  had  he  anticipated  meeting  Grace  Finch,  he  would 
no  more  have  entered  that  house  than  he  would  have  enter- 
ed the  crater  of  Mount  Etna  when  in  full  blast. 

"  George  Bailey,  can  you  forgive  me  2" 

But  this  was  too  much  for  Bailey  to  bear.  Here  was 
the  woman  before  him  who  had  forsaken  him  in  his  time 
of  trouble  and  disgrace,  and  had  married  the  very  man  who 
had  wrought  him  such  misery. 

"  Who  calls  me  George  Bailey  ? — is  it  the  wife  of  Myron 
Finch?" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Bailey,  forgive  me — forgive  me  !  Do  not  leave 
the  house  until  you  have  spoken  the  precious  words'!" 

"  Madam,  I  don't  understand  you.  With  you  I  have  no 
quarrel.  I  have  nothing  to  forgive." 

Grace,  with  all  a  woman's  quickness  of  perception,  clearly 
saw  that  Bailey  cared  no  more  for  her  than  he  did  for  one 
of  the  servants  in  her  father's  kitchen.  She  saw  his  anxiety 
to  leave  the  house,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  his  utter 
indifference  pained  her  exceedingly.  Had  he  only  found 
fault  with  her,  had  he  but  upbraided  her  for  her  desertion, 
she  would  have  had  some  hope ;  now  she  had  none.  She 
cast  herself,  pale  as  death,  on  a  sofa,  and  murmured,  "  Lost, 
lost — forever  lost !" 

"  Madam,"  said  Bailey,  "  my  presence  is  painful  to  you, 
and  I  wish  you  good-evening."  He  had  now  reached  the 
door,  and  in  another  moment  he  would  have  gone,  perhaps 
never  to  be  seen  by  her  again.  Grace  sprung  from  the 
sofa,  placed  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door,  and  closing 
it,  said, 


110  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Mr.  Bailey,  I  must  speak  to  you.  You  must  forgive  me 
— you  must!  Sit  down,  please — sit  down." 

"  Who  is  it  that  speaks  to  me  in  this  imperative  man- 
ner ?"  said  Bailey,  half  angry  at  the  detention. 

"  I  do — Grace  Van  Hess,  whom  you  once  loved !" 

"  Grace  Van  Hess,"  replied  Bailey,  in  a  deep,  grave  tone, 
"  is  dead ;  or  was  transformed,  if  report  be  true,  into  Mrs. 
Myron  Finch.  I  have  not  had  the  honor  of  any  previous 
acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Myron  Finch.  This  is  the  first  time 
I  have  had  the  honor  of  seeing  that  estimable  lady.  I  knew 
her  husband  once :  I  helped  him  to  obtain  a  good  situation ; 
I  was  his  very  good  friend ;  in  fact,  I  was  the  instrument 
by  which  he  gained  his  first  start  in  life,  and  I  believe  his 
present  wife,  too,  unless  I  have  been  greatly  misinformed. 
Doubtless,  for  all  my  kindness  to  Mr.  Myron  Finch  his  lov- 
ing wife  is  duly  thankful."  The  hard,  cold,  flinty  irony  of 
these  words  smote  Grace  to  the  heart  as  if  with  cold  steel. 

"  George  Bailey,  you  are  changed  too,"  retorted  Grace ; 
"  you  are  not  the  frank,  brave,  generous  George  Bailey 
whom  I  once  knew  and  loved." 

"There,  madam,  you  speak  most  truly.  The  George 
Bailey  \vhom  you  knew  eleven  years  ago,  and  fancied  that 
you  loved  —  vainly  fancied  that  you  loved — is  dead!  He 
died,  Mrs.  Finch,  in  a  solitary  cell  in  State  -  prison ;  and, 
mirabile  dictu,  phoanix-like,  out  of  his  ashes  arose  the  man 
you  see  before  you.  Ah  !  verily,  madam,  the  frank,  trustful 
youth  whom  you  knew  once  died  a  very  miserable  death, 
killed  by  the —  But  why  talk  ?  Why  waste  words  ?" 

"  Mr.  Bailey,  I  was  young,  inexperienced,  and  cowardly. 
I  was  surrounded  by  fashionable  society ;  and  I  was,  alas ! 
proud,  and  unable  to  face  the  disgrace  of  being  engaged  to 
a  convict.  They  convinced  me  of  your  guilt." 

"  Well,  well,  have  I  complained?  You  abandoned  me, 
and  I  ceased  to  think  of  you.  I  have  never  blamed  you. 
I  have  nothing  to  forgive ;  if  I  have,  I  forgive  you.  This 
interview,  madam,  had  better  end." 

"  Mr.  Bailey,"  Grace  persisted,  "  I  have  had  the  best  pos- 
sible proof  of  your  innocence." 

''Proofs  are  not  necessary  to  those  whose  good  opini"ii 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  Ill 

I  regard,"  replied  Bailey,  haughtily,  doubtless  thinking  at 
that  moment  of  Edith  Wilde. 

"  I  did  not  know  of  the  terrible  plot  that  consigned  you 
to  prison  for  ten  years  until  after  my — " 

"  Marriage,"  interposed  Bailey. 

"  Mr.  Finch,"  continued  Grace,  "  told,  in  his  drunken — " 

"  That  will  do,  Mrs.  Finch,"  interrupted  Bailey.  "  It  is 
better  that  I  should  hear  nothing  of  Myron  Finch  from 
you ;  for  some  day  I  have  a  reckoning  to  make  with  that 
gentleman,  and  his  wife  ought  not  to  be  a  voluntary  wit- 
ness against  him."  There  was  a  bitterness  and  a  severity 
in  Bailey's  tone  which  all  his  self-command  could  not  sub- 
due. If  the  sight  of  the  father  had  pained  him,  the  sight 
of  the  daughter  was  simply  intolerable. 

When  George  reached  the  street  he  seemed  to  breathe 
more  freely.  He  commenced  to  talk  to  himself,  for  he  had 
not  yet  overcome  his  prison  habit.  "  So,  this  is  the  woman 
whom  I  once  loved — this  poor,  weak,  ill-used  creature,  with 
all  the  marks  of  Finch  on  her  physical,  mental,  and  moral 
nature!  She  might  have  been  built  up  into  an  excellent 
woman  ;  but  this  fiend,  Finch,  has  evidently  dragged  her 
down  to  nearly  his  own  low  level.  Evidently  she  hates  her 
husband ;  and — and — I  could  strike  the  villain  here  !  But 
no — away,  away,  base  thought!  'Get  thee  behind  me,  Sa- 
tan !'  What  would  Edith  think  ?  What  would  my  mother 
think  ?  Nay,  nay,  I  would  rather  forego  all  revenge  than 
forfeit  the  good  opinion  of  my  guardian  angel,  who  succor- 
ed my  mother  in  her  time  of  destitution,  and  who  procured 
me  honorable  employment  when  every  avenue  for  honest 
work  was  barred  against  me.  Bless  her,  O  my  God  !  bless 
her,  and  guard  her  for  ever  and  ever ! — Amen." 

After  Bailey's  departure,  Grace  threw  herself  back  in  the 
chair  and  covered  her  face  with  both  her  hands,  murmur- 
ing, with  a  tone  of  despair,  "  He  loves  me  not !  he  despises 
me;  and  I  deserve  it  all.  My  ruin  was  greater  than  George 
Bailey's.  Mine  is  life  long ;  his  was  for  ten  years."  The 
poor  woman  rocked  her  body  to  and  fro,  and  seemed  a  prey 
to  remorse  and  despondency. 


112  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Edith  Wilde  remembered  the  son  of  her  late  very  dear 
friend,  and  frequently  asked  her  father  how  he  succeeded 
in  business.  Two  or  three  times  she  had  met  him  leaving 
the  church,  and  each  time  she  had  rewarded  him  with  a 
cordial  smile,  and  once  she  had  shaken  hands  Avith  him  at 
the  church-door.  Bailey  felt  the  touch  of  her  fingers  thrill 
through  his  body  for  a  week. 

One  day,  about  six  months  after  the  admission  of  Bailey 
to  a  position  in  the  banking-house,  he  was  surprised  by  an 
invitation  from  Mr.  Wilde  to  dine  with  him  and  his  daugh- 
ter. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Wilde,  "  that  my  ob- 
ject is  to  talk  business  with  you.  The  nature  of  this  busi- 
ness is  partly  private,  and  therefore  I  prefer  to  discuss  it 
at  ray  residence."  But  Bailey  never  gave  the  business  a 
thought :  his  mind  was  entirely  engrossed  with  the  bank- 
er's daughter ;  and  to  meet  her  in  this  way  was  a  happiness 
that  he  had  never  dreamed  of ;  for  a  thought  of  courting 
or  wedding  his  "  guardian  angel,"  as  he  chose  to  call  her 
in  his  lonely  self-communings,  had  never  once  entered  his 
mind.  She  was  too  far  above  him,  too  good,  too  noble, 
ever  to  be  his  wife.  He  loved  her  hopelessly,  and  felt  that 
he  could  never  love  any  one  but  her.  Realizing  his  posi- 
tion, he  had  firmly  resolved  to  keep  so  close  a  watch  and 
ward  over  his  looks,  his  words,  and  his  acts,  that  neither 
father  nor  daughter  could  ever  by  any  possibility  suspect 
his  feelings.  In  his  present  frame  of  mind  Bailey  felt  that 
any  revelation  of  his  passion  would  be  the  very  depth  of 
ingratitude ;  and  the  most  he  ever  hoped  for  was  that 
when  on  his  death-bed  he  might  take  her  hand  in  his,  and 
tell  her  how  truly,  how  purely,  and  how  devotedly  he  had 
loved  since  the  first  hour  he  saw  her. 

Bailey  took  more  than  usual  care  in  dressing  for  the 
dinner  at  the  banker's  house.  He  had  not  been  so  particu- 
lar about  his  linen  or  his  necktie  since  the  time  when  he 
went  to  visit  Grace  Van  Hess.  As  he  stood  before  the 
glass  a  strange,  sad  smile  lit  up  his  grave  face ;  for  he  rec- 
ognized the  return  of  the  old  vanity  which  prompted  him 
to  appear  as  neat  as  possible  in  the  presence  of  the  woman 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  113 

whom  tie  desired  to  please.  As  a  matter  of  course,  he  had 
informed  his  friend  John  Grady  of  the  invitation  ;  and  that 
redoubtable  champion  of  reform  and  temperance,  always 
sanguine  and  hopeful,  augured  great  good  fortune  to  Bai- 
ley, and  failed  not  to  warn  him  to  do  his  utmost  to  win 
the  heart  of  "  the  best  woman  on  the  face  of  God's  earth," 
as  he  chose  to  designate  Edith  Wilde. 

The  dinner  was  a  very  pleasant  affair.  Three  highly  ed- 
ucated persons,  with  many  tastes  in  common,  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  finding  subject-matter  for  conversation.  In  the 
presence  of  his  two  friends  all  Bailey's  reserve  and  reti- 
cence disappeared,  and  the  frank,  joyous  spirit  for  which 
he  had  been  formerly  remarkable  returned  with  all  its  pow- 
ers of  fascination.  His  knowledge,  wide  and  thorough,  his 
habit  of  deep  meditation,  and  his  extraordinary  memory, 
cultivated,  as  the  reader  may  remember,  in  his  prison  cell, 
imparted  to  Bailey's  conversation  a  charm  and  a  raciness 
which  held  father  and  daughter  almost  spellbound.  He 
presented  himself  to  them  in  a  new  light ;  nor  had  either 
of  them  the  least  idea  that  there  was  so  much  in  the  mind 
of  the  man  whom  they  had  hitherto  seen  so  grave  and  so 
sad.  Bailey  appeared  at  home  on  all  subjects :  theology, 
law,  medicine,  history,  and  politics  were  handled  by  him 
with  almost  equal  brilliancy.  At  one  point  in  the  conver- 
sation he  trod  on  dangerous  ground. 

"  I  do  not  believe,"  said  he,  "  that  man  by  himself,  man 
standing  alone,  can  be  a  religious  being.  He  must  worship 
with  some  woman — mother,  sister,  wife,  or  friend — or  not 
at  all.  That  Church  will  prosper  most  which  has  the  great- 
est influence  over  the  minds  of  women." 

"  How  do  you  account  for  that,  Mr.  Bailey  ?"  inquired 
Edith. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  correctly  account  for  it,"  re- 
plied Bailey.  "It  may  be  that  there  is  in  the  beautiful 
but  delicate  organization  of  woman  a  higher  emotion  — 
the  religious  emotion — almost  wanting  in  many  men ;  and 
where  it  exists  in  some  men  in  a  high  degree,  it  will  be 
found,  on  investigation,  that  the  religious  faculty  has  been 
developed  by  some  wise  woman." 


114  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Your  mother,"  said  Edith,  "  was  a  wise,  religious  wom- 
an ;  and,  therefore,  Mr.  Bailey,  by  your  own  argument,  or 
according  to  your  own  theory,  you  ought  to  be  a  very  re- 
ligious man." 

"  I  might  have  been,  but  for  my  great  misfortune,"  said 
Bailey,  with  a  sigh  like  a  sob. 

He  had  seen  his  danger;  he  had  seen  that,  if  pushed,  he 
might  have  stated  that  Miss  Wilde's  goodness  had  drawn 
him  nearer  his  God. 

Mr.  Wilde  turned  the  conversation  to  business. 

''  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  he,  "  my  son  Walter  is  managing  a 
branch  house  in  San  Francisco,  and  I  fear  the  work  is  too 
much  for  him.  His  health  is  not  good,  and  from  the  tone 
of  his  last  letter  (reading  between  the  lines,  as  I  usually 
do)  I  fear  he  is  growing  worse.  It  is  the  desire  of  the 
house  to  wind  up  our  business  in  California;  and,  after 
due  deliberation,  at  my  suggestion  we  have  concluded  to 
send  you  out  to  assist  Walter,  nominally,  but  really  to  do 
the  whole  work.  I  had  two  reasons,  Mr.  Bailey — one  en- 
tirely selfish,  the  other  founded  on  the  principle  of  justice 
— for  selecting  you  for  this  responsible  post.  I  desired  to 
place  my  son  Walter  in  the  hands  of  an  honest,  sensible 
man ;  I  desired  also  to  give  this  man  an  opportunity  to  re- 
cover the  position  which  he  lost  more  than  eleven  years 
ago,  partly  by  my  evidence." 

"  Mr.  Wilde,  your  kindness  overpowers  me ;  I  have  no 
words  to  express  my  gratitude  for  this  great  trust.  I  as- 
sure you,  sir,  that  your  complete  confidence  in  my  integrity 
is  the  greatest  boon  that  could  be  conferred  upon  me.  I 
do  not  like  to  make  professions ;  but  you  may  rest  assured 
that  if  my  poor  life  is  necessary  to  save  your  son's,  he  and 
you  are  perfectly  welcome  to  it." 

Dinner  had  been  finished  for  some  time,  and  Edith  had 
taken  up  some  worsted-work  to  employ  her  nimble  fingers. 
Over  this  work  she  was  gravely  scanning,  with  those  large, 
wide-open,  weird  eyes  of  hers,  Bailey's  sad  face,  and,  with 
the  intuitive  perception  of  her  sex,  she  clearly  saw  that  the 
young  man  meant  every  word  he  said — that  his  life  was 
freely  at  Walter's  service. 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  115 

During  the  week  before  the  steamer  sailed  for  Panama, 
and  while  the  preparations  for  the  voyage  were  being  made, 
Bailey  spent  two  or  three  delightful  evenings  with  Mr. 
Wilde  and  Edith.  The  former  had  directions  for  his  son ; 
the  latter  had  little  presents  for  her  brother ;  and  these 
furnished  the  opportunities  for  Bailey  to  see  and  converse 
with  the  woman  whom  he  idolized.  Had  it  not  been  that 
he  was  doing  father  and  daughter  a  great  service — at  least, 
so  they  esteemed  it — Bailey  would  have  been  overwhelmed 
with  grief  at  the  bare  thought  of  going  so  far  away  from 
Editk 

The  evening  before  the  ship  sailed,  Bailey  called  for  the 
present  for  Walter  which  Edith  had  just  finished  with  her 
own  hands.  They  stood  for  a  moment  under  the  hall  lamp. 
"  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  she,  "  I  want  you  to  take  great  care  of 
our  Walter,  for  I  am  not  only  his  sister  but  his  little  grand- 
mother. W"e  had  no  mother;  and  as  I  was  the  elder,  I 
helped  him  with  his  studies,  and  the  love  between  us  was 
something  more  than  that  of  brother  and  sister.  But  I 
need  not  ask  you  ;  I  know  you  will."  At  these  words  their 
eyes  met  point-blank,  and  Edith  read  his  heart  like  an  open 
book.  A  great  joy  swept  through  her,  for  she  knew  that 
she  was  loved  as  not  one  woman  in  a  million  is  ever  loved. 
She  pressed  his  hand  and  bade  him  good-bye. 

The  next  day  George  Bailey  was  sailing  away  toward  the 
Southern  Cross. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
"  One  sin  doth  another  provoke." — rSitAKSPEARE. 

TIMOTHY  QUIN,  "wine -merchant"  and  ward  politician, 
was  now  a  thick-set,  bull-necked,  red-faced  man  about  forty 
years  of  age.  He  had  "  risen"  in  the  world  since  the  time 
when  he  was  the  humble,  obsequious  porter  of  Van  Hess  & 
Co.  Ignorant,  cunning,  and  sycophantic  when  it  served  his 
purpose,  totally  without  principle,  and  born  without  a  con- 
science, he  was  ever  ready  "to  turn  an  honest  penny." 


116  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Whether  that  "  honest  penny  "  came  to  his  pocket  in  the 
form  of  a  bribe  to  carry  a  primary  election,  or  by  selling  a 
horse  (after  innumerable  lies)  for  fifty  per  centum  above  its 
value,  or  by  retailing  inflammatory  and  poisonous  compounds 
misnamed  rum,  gin,  and  brandy,  mattered  very  little  to  him  ; 
for  the  great  aim  of  his  life  was  to  "  rise  "  in  the  world ; 
and  he  had  sense  enough  to  see  that  money  was  power,  and 
covered  a  multitude  of  sins.  He  had  half  a  dozen  "  wine- 
merchant's  "  stores  on  the  corners  of  half  a  dozen  streets 
where  five-story  tenement-houses  most  abounded.  He  kept 
his  horse  and  light  wagon,  drove  once  a  day  to  his  different 
stores,  then  through  the  Park,  and  sometimes  to  the  races. 
He  was  ready  to  bet  his  money  on  anything,  from  an  elec- 
tion to  a  rat  fight ;  and  as  he  was  shrewd,  he  always  man- 
aged to  double  the  "honest  penny."  Timothy  was  no 
longer  obliged  to  duck  his  head  by  grasping  the  forelock 
of  his  hair,  as  had  been  his  habit  when  serving  in  the  ca- 
pacity of  porter.  The  fact  is,  Quin  had  grown  to  be  a  great 
man  and  a  power  in  the  "  party."  He  now  dressed  in  shiny 
black  broadcloth,  wore  a  gold  watch  with  an  immense  gold 
chain,  and  adorned  himself  with  the  most  gorgeous  of  neck- 
ties. It  is  true,  his  manners  were  not  quite  as  polished  as 
his  patent-leather  boots,  and  his  finger-nails  were  not  quite 
as  clean  as  his  linen.  When  among  gentlemen — and  he 
did  sometimes  see  gentlemen — it  was  amusing  to  listen  to 
his  commendable  attempts  to  speak  English  like  an  Ameri- 
can. The  result  was  a  sniffle  through  his  nose,  or  a  sepul- 
chral tone  drawn  down  from  some  obscure  region  at  the 
base  of  his  brain.  In  his  efforts  to  disguise  his  origin  and 
his  brogue,  he  played  the  mischief  with  vowels  and  handled 
the  consonants  without  gloves.  Nevertheless,  among  his 
own  countrymen  he  was  a  patriot,  and  a  true  son  of  the 
Emerald  Isle ;  he  was  a  thorough  Fenian,  and  knew  all 
about  Robert  Emmett,  whose  portrait  hung  upon  the  walls 
of  his  bar-rooms,  and  could  talk  treason  at  a  safe  distance, 
and  defy  the  British  Lion  when  the  brute  was  over  three 
thousand  miles  away. 

Timothy  Quin  was  a  type  of  the  class  that  tried  to  rule 
New  York.     Vulgar,  impudent,  greedy,  the  great  metropol- 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  117 

itan  city  was  to  him  and  his  class  what  Rome  was  to  the 
Goths  of  Alaric — a  place  in  which  to  secure  rich  spoils. 
To  the  man  who  in  his  boyhood  and  youth  was  compelled 
to  doff  his  cap  to  every  petty  officer  and  magistrate,  to  be 
on  intimate  terms  with  au  alderman,  or  to  shake  the  hand 
of  a  police-justice,  was  an  honor  that,  twenty  years  before, 
he  had  never  dreamed  of  attaining.  If  his  gin,  rum,  and 
brandy,  so-called,  made  widows  and  orphans,  what  was  that 
to  him  ?  The  wail  of  the  widow  or  the  cry  of  the  orphan 
never  cost  Timothy  Quin  a  thought,  or  caused  him  to  lose 
one  hour  of  sweet  repose.  Timothy's  wife  was  even  coarser 
and  more  vulgar  than  himself ;  for  she  had  not  received, 
like  him,  the  "  culture  "  which  came  from  association  with 
the  sporting  gentlemen  of  the  race-course  and  the  pool- 
room. 

Since  George  Bailey's  return  to  the  city  Quin  had  pon- 
dered deeply  over  his  former  connection  with  Mr.  Myron 
Finch,  and  had  slowly  made  up  his  mind  to  use  certain 
transactions,  that  took  place  more  than  eleven  years  ago,  in 
such  a  way  as  to  enable  him  "  to  turn  an  honest  penny." 
True,  at  the  time  honest  Timothy  had  received  many  a 
thousand  "  honest  pennies  "  from  his  intimate  friend  Finch ; 
but  what  of  that  ?  Myron  Finch  was  reputed  to  be  a  mill- 
ionnaire ;  he  lived  in  princely  style ;  he  was  a  great  mer- 
chant ;  he  had  oceans  of  money.  Did  not  he,  Quin,  give 
Finch  his  first  start  in  life  ?  Was  he  not  instrumental  in 
aiding  the  poor  entry -clerk  to  become  a  partner  in  the 
firm  ?  Did  he  not  make  this  clerk  the  son-in-law  of  Jacob 
Van  Hess  ?  What  were  a  paltry  thousand  dollars  compared 
with  Finch's  millions  ?  In  those  days  honest  Tim  was  mod- 
est, and  his  aspirations  had  never  soared  above  a  small  gro- 
cery and  liquor  store.  But  since  he  had  grown  into  a  "  wine- 
merchant,"  and  the  owner  of  six  stores,  into  a  ward  politi- 
cian, with  all  the  word  implies,  and  into  a  sporting  gentle- 
man of  means,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Mr. 
Myron  Finch  had  treated  him  very  shabbily,  and  had  not 
given  him  his  proper  share  of  the  spoils.  Bailey  was  em- 
ployed in  a  great  banking-house,  and  doubtless  was  sup- 
ported by  influential  friends.  Finch  knew  it,  and,  likely, 


118  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

feared  the  returned  convict.  Timothy  Quin  took  in  the 
situation  at  a  glance,  and  resolved  "  to  turn  an  honest 
penny  "  by  squeezing  his  friend  of  other  days. 

His  mind  absorbed  with  great  thoughts  of  gain,  Timothy 
shouldered  his  way  through  the  most  crowded  streets  below 
the  City  Hall,  just  as  he  had  done  through  life,  obsequious 
to  the  strong,  and  overbearing  with  the  weak,  until  he  reach- 
ed the  counting-house  of  Van  Hess  <fe  Finch.  He  nodded, 
half  shyly,  half  impudently,  to  his  old  master,  winked  and 
smiled  familiarly  at  some  of  the  clerks,  and  grinned  in  a 
jocular  way  at  some  of  his  old  companions,  the  porters  and 
carmen.  Tim  was  a  born  politician.  With  early  education 
and  culture  he  would  have  made  a  capital  member  of  a  cor- 
rupt Congress  or  a  mercenary  Legislature.  As  a  lobbyist 
lie  would  have  been  worth  his  weight  in  gold.  A  rich  cor- 
poration, in  want  of  a  charter  with  which  to  fleece  the  peo- 
ple, would  have  found  him  the  most  affable  and  approacha- 
ble of  men. 

As  Quin  approached  the  desk  at  which  Finch  was  writ- 
ing, the  latter  threw  down  his  eyes  and  pretended  not  to 
have  seen  his  unwelcome  visitor. 

"  Misther  Finch,  I  want  a  wor-rd  wid  ye,  if  ye  plase," 
were  the  words  with  which  Quin  addressed  the  great  mer- 
chant. There  was  a  menace  in  their  grating  tone,  and 
there  was  an  undercurrent  of  anger  in  the  unadulterated 
brogue,  which  he  did  not  care  to  disguise.  Myron  Finch 
grew  a  shade  paler,  for  he  divined  the  purpose  of  Quin's 
visit.  Finch  now  recollected,  to  his  dismay,  that  since  the 
day  he  had  paid  Quin  the  last  instalment  of  the  thousand 
dollars,  he  had  systematically  failed  to  recognize  him,  when 
by  chance  they  had  encountered  each  other  in  the  Park  or 
on  the  race-course.  Timothy  had  felt  cut  at  this.  You 
might  cheat  him  at  cards,  you  might  strike  him  in  a  mo- 
ment of  anger,  and  he  could  forgive  and  forget;  but  hurt 
his  vanity  by  treating  him  with  contempt  or  indifference, 
and  he  would  resent  the  injury,  if  it  took  him  half  a  life- 
time to  do  it. 

"  Misther  Finch,  I  want  a  wor-rd  wid  ye,  if  ye  plase !" 
Quin  repeated,  in  a  much  louder  and  angrier  tone  of  voice. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  119 

"In  a  minute,  Timothy;  I  am  very  busy.  In  a  minute 
or  two  I  shall  see  you  in  the  inner  office." 

"  Very  well,  sur ;  I  kin  wait." 

Timothy  took  a  seat,  crossed  his  legs,  and  commenced  to 
spell  out  the  words  in  a  newspaper,  for  he  thought  it  the 
gentlemanly  sort  of  thing  to  be  found  reading  the  news 
from  Europe  and  the  state  of  the  stock-market.  "Very 
well,  sur,"  Timothy  muttered  to  himself ;  "  I'll  charge  ye, 
me  boy,  just  wan  hundthred  dollars  for  every  blessed  min- 
ute ye  keep  me  waitin'.  Five  minutes,  five  hundthred  ;  tin 
minutes,  tin  hundthred!  Just  take  yer  toime,  me  brave 
boy ;  this  is  the  best  pay  I  iver  got.  Fifteen  minutes 
sence  ye  tould  me  to  wait  a  minute,  and  that's  fifteen 
hundthred  dollars.  A  hundthred  dollars  a  minute !  I 
wondther  if  ould  Asthor  or  ould  Sthewart  kin  mek  money 
as  fast  as  this  ?" 

While  Timothy  was  making  "  honest  pennies "  by  the 
hundred  thousand,  Finch  was  thinking  with  all  his  might 
how  he  would  meet  and  manage  his  old  confederate.  He 
was  well  aware  that  black-mail,  once  commenced,  never  end- 
ed but  with  the  utter  ruin  of  the  person  who  submitted  to 
it.  Finch  was  not  wanting  in  intellectual  ability  nor  in 
quickness  of  perception.  He  knew  the  object  of  Quin's 
visit  just  as  well  as  though  he  had  announced  it  on  his  first 
entrance.  Indeed,  since  the  return  and  employment  of  Bai- 
ley he  had  rather  anticipated  annoyance  from  the  ex-porter. 
Finch  could  not  handle  the  "  wine-merchant "  now  as  he 
had  handled  the  ignorant  workman  of  eleven  years  ago. 
"What  shall  I  do?"  he  muttered.  "Ah,  I  have  it!  I'll 
promise;  I'll  put  him  off;  I'll  gain  time;  and  if  the  worst 
come  to  the  worst,  why — why — I  can  pay  to  have  him  dis- 
.posed  of.  I'll  have  no  rat  like  this  nibbling  my  hands  and 
feet  by  half  inches  !" 

"  Well,  Misther  Finch,  ye've  kep  me  waitin'  fifteen  min- 
utes very  much  to  me  profit,  I  can  assure  ye.  I've  been 
sayin'  me  prayers,  Misther  Finch,  and  me  good  angels  have 
promised  me  fifteen  hundthred  dollars — a  hundthred  dol- 
lars a  minute — for  me  patience  and  me  piety.  Ha !  ha  !  ha ! 
— ha !  ha !  Misther  Finch,  wud  ye  be  afther  tellin'  me  f  what 


120  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

I'm  laughin'  at?"  The  tone  and  manner  of  this  speech 
were  indescribably  insolent,  and  yet  Finch,  with  impertur- 
bable coolness,  replied, 

"  Why,  Timothy,  you  appear  in  excellent  spirits  to-day. 
What  good  fortune  has  befallen  you?" 

"  Och,  thin,  Misther  Finch,  to  be  plain  wid  ye,  I've  found 
me  fortune  at  last ;  and  I  mane  to  have  it,  do  ye  hear  .'  1 
mane  to  have  it." 

Quin  was  working  himself  into  a  state  of  anger,  because 
he  really  feared  Finch's  subtlety,  which  was  vastly  more 
dangerous  than  his  own. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Quin." 

"  You  don't,  eh  ?  You  may  tell  that  to  the  marines ! 
Ye  don't  know  that  George  Bailey  is  back  in  New  Yar-rk, 
and  in  the  employ  of  Warrenton, Wilde  <fe  Co.?  Ye  don't 
know  that,  Misther  Finch  ?" 

"  Well,  what  of  that  ?"  replied  Finch. 

"  Fwhat  of  that  ?  Everything  of  that !  See  here ;  you 
med  yer  millions,  an1  I  got  a  palthry  wan  thousand  dollars 
in  dhriblets.  You  are  a  rich  marchint,  married  to  a  rich 
wife,  the  only  daughter  ov  an  ould  man  as  rich  as  Crasus, 
an'  you've  got  all  this  by  my  manes.  Come,  Misther  Finch, 
we  ought  to  have  gone  halves ;  and,  be  jabers,  it  isn't  too 
late  yit !" 

"  Again  I  repeat,  I  don't  understand  you,"  replied  Finch, 
with  cool  gravity. 

"  You  don't,  eh  ?"  replied  Quin,  with  an  ugly  frown  on 
his  beetle  brow — "  you  don't,  eh  ?  Thin  I'll  soon  tache  ye. 
You  are  worth  your  millions — " 

"  Nonsense,  Quin !  my  fortune  is  grossly  exaggerated, 
and  my  expenses  are  heavy ;  I  have  lived  up  to  my  in- 
come. Tonlay,  clear  of  all  debts,  I'm  worth  not  much  over 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

"  Very  good,  thin,"  said  Quin.  "  Though  I  don't  believe 
wan  wor-rd  of  fwhat  ye  say,  I'll  take  ye  at  yer  own  valea- 
tion.  Ye  say  ye  are  worth  a  hundthred  thousand  dollars, 
or  a  little  over  it ;  let  us  say  a  hundthred  and  tin  thou- 
sand. My  tarms  is  these :  give  me  fifty-wan  thousand  five 
hundthred — the  fifteen  hundthred  for  keepin'  me  waitin' 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  121 

fifteen  minutes — an'  the  wor-rd  atwane  us  is  mum.  Now 
do  ye  know  fwhat  I  mane?" 

The  tone,  language,  and  bearing  of  Quin  were  coarse  and 
aggressive  beyond  all  powers  of  description.  Every  look, 
every  gesture,  every  wink,  and  every  smile  was  an  insult ; 
and  yet  Myron  Finch  was  able  to  keep  his  temper,  and  to 
gain  time  for  reflection. 

"  Them's  my  tarms,  Misther  Finch ;  do  ye  hear  ?  Them's 
my  tarms." 

"  Your  terms  are  very  modest,  Mr.  Quin — very  modest 
indeed !" 

"  I  want  none  o'  yer  chaff  !  Them's  my  tarms ;  and  if 
ye  don't  consint  to  them,  I'll  carry  me  goods  to  another 
market — to  wan  George  Bailey ;  and  that  manes  State-pris- 
on for  somebody — eh,  Misther  Finch,  doesn't  it  ?" 

Quin,  knowing  that  he  was  violating  the  original  com- 
pact with  Finch,  and  aware  that  he  was  doing  a  dishonora- 
ble thing — dishonorable  even  among  thieves — had  deliber- 
ately worked  himself  up  into  a  fit  of  anger,  in  order  to  bul- 
ly his  smooth,  cunning  confederate  of  former  times.  Finch 
gave  Quin  a  deadly  look,  as  he  replied, 

"  And  what  does  it  mean  for  you  ?  It  seems  to  me  that 
we  were  both  in  the  same  boat." 

"  It  manes  nauthin'  at  all  at  all  for  me,  me  brave  boy ; 
for  I  have  lamed  a  thrick  or  two  since  I  was  a  portlier. 
I  was  sint  on  an  errand,  an'  I  was  not  supposed  to  know 
that  there  was  anythin'  wrong.  The  law  can't  lay  a  fin- 
ger on  me,  and  I  don't  care  that  for  it !"  said  Quin,  vicious- 
ly snapping  his  fingers ;  "  but  you,  you  can  be  sint  to  State- 
prison  for  life!  Who  forged  the  check,  eh,  Misther  Finch? 
Who  spint  hours  an'  hours  in  this  very  office  imitatin'  Bai- 
ley's handwrite,  and  copyin'  ould  Van  Hess's  signature? 
You  know  that  the  evidence  of  Misther  Wilde  and  the  ex- 
pirts  nearly  saved  him,  for  they  had  their  doubts ;  and  that 
nauthin'  convicted  him  but  the  motive,  and  the  receipt  which 
you  put  in  his  coat-pocket  jist  in  the  nick  o'  time.  Come, 
Misther  Finch,  I've  thought  it  all  out.  Down  wid  yer  fifty- 
wan  thousand  five  hundthred  dollars,  or  I'll  go  straight  off 
to  Bailey  and  tell  him  all !" 


122  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Timothy  Qnin  would  have  trembled  in  every  joint  had 
he  been  able,  at  this  moment,  to  read  the  heart  of  Myron 
Finch.  While  Quin,  with  bad  manners  and  worse  temper, 
was  driving  the  hardest  sort  of  bargain,  Finch  was  simply 
pondering  and  taxing  his  fertile  brain  for  some  plan  where- 
by he  might  destroy  this  enemy  who  had  suddenly  arisen 
to  torment  him.  Finch  thought:  "Could  he  kill  him  in 
that  office  and  bury  his  body  in  the  cellar?  or  cut  it  up,  put 
it  in  a  barrel,  and  consign  it  to  Galveston  ?  Could  he  poi- 
son him  ?  Could  he  hire  some  one  to  slay  him  at  mid- 
night 1  Whatever  he  intended  to  do  must  be  done  quick- 
ly :  no  living  soul  knew  the  crime  committed  against  Bai- 
ley but  themselves.  If  he  poisoned  Quin,  or  stabbed  him 
to  the  heart,  or  put  a  bullet  through  his  brain,  suspicion 
would  never  fall  on  him,  Finch ;  for  what  motive  could  he 
have  had  for  murdering  an  Irish  rum-seller?  But  he  must 
have-time  to  think;  he  must  not  act  hastily.  One  thing 
he  was  certainly  resolved  never  to  do — he  would  never  give 
Quin  a  single  dollar."  Finch  was  a  man  of  clear  and  accu- 
rate perceptions,  with  plenty  of  brains,  but  without  heart 
or  conscience.  Cowardly,  cruel,  ungrateful,  and  supremely 
selfish,  he  was  nevertheless  a  man  of  no  ordinary  intellectual 
ability.  He  was  resolved  to  poison  Quin,  or  pay  for  his  as- 
sassination, rather  than  give  one  dollar  in  the  way  of  hush- 
money  or  black-mail.  These  fearful  thoughts  were  taking 
shape  in  the  mind  of  Finch,  while  that  paragon  of  a  "  wine- 
merchant"  was  trying  "to  turn  an  honest  penny"  by  act- 
ing the  part  of  an  insolent,  angry  bully.  To  maintain  ap- 
pearances and  to  lull  suspicion,  Finch  commenced  to  haggle 
about  the  price. 

"  Your  terms  are  very  high,"  said  Finch,  in  a  low,  quiet 
tone.  "  Could  you  not  take  a  less  sum  than  half  my  fort- 
une ?  Consider  your  way  of  life  and  mine.  Twenty  thou- 
sand dollars  would  be  as  much  to  you  as  eighty  thousand 
to  me.  Suppose  I  should  offer  you  twenty  thousand,  would 
you  give  me  a  paper  in  your  own  handwriting  confessing 
that  you  were  equally  guilty  with  me,  and  that  on  the  trial 
of  George  Bailey  you  perjured  yourself  ?  In  that  case  each 
would  be  in  the  other's  power." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  123 

"No,  no;  I'll  be  if  I  do!  Give  you  a  paper? 

Why,  wid  that  paper  you'd  sind  me  to  jail  or  hang  me  in 
less  than  no  time.  Misther  Finch,  I  know  ye  too  well  for 
that !" 

"  I  shall  give  you  a  paper  in  my  handwriting  similar  to 
the  one  that  you  will  give  me.  We  shall  then  mutually 
checkmate  each  other.  What  do  you  say  to  this  ?" 

"  I'll  give  no  paper,  I'll  write  no  writin',''  replied  Quin, 
who  was  more  afraid  of  a  piece  of  writing  than  he  was  of 
a  pistol  at  fifteen  paces'  distance.  He  had  just  learned 
enough  in  his  business,  in  politics,  and  in  betting,  to  be- 
ware of  signing  his  name  to  a  piece  of  paper. 

"  Well,  I  see  we  cannot  agree,"  said  Finch,  "and  my  be- 
ing here  so  long  with  you  alone  will  be  noticed.  Can  you 
not  meet  me  at  some  hotel,  where  we  can  talk  this  matter 
over  more  at  our  leisure?  Besides,  I  must  see  about  raising 
a  large  sum  of  money,  and  it  takes  a  little  time  to  do  it." 

"  See  here,  Misther  Finch ;  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on 
ye:  say  thirty  thousand,  an'  it's  a  bargain." 

"  Xo ;  I  cannot  possibly  part  with  more  than  twenty 
thousand." 

"  Split  the  difference,"  said  Quin  ;  "  make  it  twenty-five, 
and  we'll  be  the  best  of  frinds." 

"  I  cannot  go  one  dollar  higher,"  said  Finch,  disguising 
his  hatred  and  disgust  as  best  he  could.  "Are  you  willing 
to  take  this,  and  then  swear,  in  the  presence  of  two  witness- 
es, that  that  amount  is  in  full  for  all  demands  ?" 

Satisfied  that  this  sum  was  four  times  as  much  as  he 
expected,  Quin  gave  his  assent,  and  promised  to  meet  Mr. 

Finch  at  the  A House  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day 

from  the  present.  As  Timothy  Quin  retired  from  the 
counting-house  he  chuckled  at  his  success;  and  Myron 
Finch  strode  up  and  down  that  inner  office  for  half  an  hour, 
thinking  with  all  his  might  how  he  could  get  rid  of  Timo- 
thy Quin.  Ah,  Timothy !  if  a  little  bird  of  the  air  could 
carry  you  the  thoughts  of  Mr.  Finch,  instead  of  chuckling 
you  would  hurry  home,  bar  your  doors,  kneel  down  and  say 
your  prayers — those  prayers  which  you  have  never  uttered 
since  you  were  a  little  boy  at  your  mother's  knee  ! 


124  GEORGE  BAILEY. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  The  bread  of  deceit  is  sweet,  but  it  afterwards  turneth  to  gravel  in 
the  mouth." — PROVERBS. 

ON  the  day  appointed  for  the  meeting  with  Quin  at  the 
hjotel  agreed  upon,  Myron  Finch,  the  wealthy  and  well- 
dressed  merchant,  might  have  been  seen  slowly  wending 
his  way  through  Broad  and  Wall  Streets  to  Broadway. 
He  was  thinking  so  profoundly  that  he  failed  to  notice  sev- 
eral of  his  acquaintances  until  accosted ;  and,  as  soon  as  the 
ordinary  salutations  were  exchanged,  he  resumed  the  same 
attitude  of  deep  meditation.  We  are  at  liberty  to  state  his 
reflections.  "This  coarse,  vulgar  fellow  would  suck  me 
like  an  orange,"  thought  Finch,  "  until  nothing  is  left  but 
the  rind.  The  cancelled  check  was  secured  and  destroyed. 
There  was  no  witness  but  Qnin.  Why  not  deny  the  whole 
thing,  and  defy  this  leech  ?  Had  Quin  any  other  testimony? 
He  must  have,  or  he  never  would  have  been  so  impudent 
and  arrogant  in  his  demands.  What  could  that  testimony 
be  ?  Had  he,  the  cunning  rascal,  an  accomplice  ?" 

Finch  was  a  man  who  slowly  and  carefully  concocted  his 
plots.  No  military  engineer  ever  built  a  fort  more  skil- 
fully to  withstand  the  assaults  of  the  enemy  than  he  his 
schemes  to  prevent  detection ;  but,  as  in  the  best  armor 
there  are  joints,  and  as  in  the  strongest  fortification  there 
are  weak  points,  so  in  the  plans  of  Myron  Finch  there  were 
acts  of  oversight  which  even  his  caution  did  not  guard 
against.  He  had  staked  all  to  make  a  fortune  which  he 
keenly  relished ;  and  now  to  have  it  torn  from  him  piece- 
meal by  this  ignorant  fellow,  Quin,  was  worse  than  death. 
His  crimes  against  Scroggs,  the  pastor's  niece,  and  against 
Bailey,  were  not  committed  through  any  hatred  or  malice, 
but  simply  to  advance  his  selfish  interests.  He  respected 
his  school-master,  whom  he  had  injured  ;  he  loved,  after  his 
cold  fashion,  the  girl  whom  he  had  ruined ;  and  he  admired 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  125 

Bailey,  whom  he  had  destroyed  !  But  the  destruction  of 
each  was  necessary  to  his  happiness,  and  so  he  destroyed 
them  without  scruple  or  remorse.  Had  his  own  mother 
been  an  impediment,  he  would  have  removed  her  too,  and 
his  conscience  would  never  have  given  him  an  instant's 
pain.  He  never  hated  or  bore  malice  until  after  he  had 
wrought  evil  on  his  victims.  His  feeling  against  Quin  was 
a  combination  of  fear,  hatred,  and  disgust.  "  It  is  strange," 
he  thought,  "if  I  cannot  manage  this  ignoramus.  To-day 
I  shall  play  with  him,  watch  him,  pump  him,  and  see  what 
he  knows ;  and  if  he  has  nothing  against  me  but  his  single 
word,  I  shall  have  him  arrested  as  a  black- mailer."  These 
reflections  brought  Finch  to  the  steps  of  the  hotel,  where 
Quin  was  waiting  to  see  him. 

"  We  shall  meet  in  a  private  room,"  said  Finch,  in  a  cold, 
distant  tone. 

"  Very  well,  sur ;  I'm  your  'umble  sarvint  to  command," 
replied  Quin,  in  a  tone  of  mock  humility  which  was  very 
galling  to  Finch. 

We  shall  leave  these  two  worthies  in  their  private  room 
to  discuss  their  monetary  affairs,  while  we  turn  to  another 
and  better  character  of  our  story — honest  and  kind-hearted 
John  Grady.  It  so  happened  that  Grady  had  that  morn- 
ing been  commissioned  by  his  wife  to  carry  an  invitation 
to  her  niece,  Miss  Jenny  Edwards,  the  head-stewardess  of 
the  hotel,  to  make  them  a  visit -next  Sunday,  and  to  remain 
with  them  all  night,  as  her  own  room,  recently  occupied  by 
George  Bailey,  had  been  vacated.  John  Grady  had  no  dif- 
ficulty in  finding  his  niece-in-law,  for  he  was  well  known 
in  the  hotel  on  account  of  his  visits  once  or  twice  a  month 
to  see  her.  As  the  uncle  entered  Miss  Edwards's  room  he 
greeted  her  most  cordially,  seized  both  her  hands,  and  kiss- 
ed her  most  affectionately  on  the  forehead. 

"And  how's  my  little  niece  to-day,  and  how  is  every 
bone  in  her  body  ?"  said  Grady,  holding  her  small,  delicate 
hand  in  his  great  strong  grasp.  "  Your  aunt  requested  me 
to  call  and  ask  you  to  come  over  on  Sunday,  and  stay  all 
night.  Bailey  sailed  for  San  Francisco  last  Saturday,  to  be 
gone  about  three  or  four  months." 


126  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"Your  little  niece  is  all  right,  Uncle  John.  But  hush! 
There's  somebody  in  the  private  room  at  the  end  of  the 
hall." 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  who  is  in  the  private 
room  ?"  replied  Grady.  "  There  are  fifty  private  rooms  in 
this  house,  and  there  may  be  fifty  private  parties  in  them ; 
but  what  do  we  care  about  them  ?" 

"  Hush,  uncle !  He  is  in  there  (pointing  to  the  room) 
•with  a  coarse,  rough-looking  Irishman — I  beg  pardon — in 
one  of  the  small  private  dining-rooms.  As  you  came,  I 
was  considering  whether  my  sense  of  honor  would  permit 
me  to  discover  what  they  are  doing." 

"  He  ?     Do  you  mean  that  precious  rascal,  Finch  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  mean  Myron  Finch." 

"  Is  it  a  sense  of  honor  you  are  talking  about  with  such 
a  villain  as  he  ?"  And  honest  John  stretched  out  his  "  car- 
nal weapon,"  as  he  was  pleased  to  term  his  right  arm,  as  if 
longing  to  try  its  weight  on  the  villain  aforesaid. 

"  I  saw  him  pass,  but  he  did  not  see  me.  Indeed,  I  am 
so  much  changed  that  I  doubt  if  he  would  recognize  me  if 
he  met  me  face  to  face."  This  was  uttered  by  the  young 
woman  in  a  tone  of  deep  sadness. 

"Jenny,  my  dear,  is  there  any  way  in  which  we  could 
overhear  what  he  is  talking  about?  for  I  have  good  and 
sufficient  reasons  for  desiring  to  know." 

"  Yes :  there  is  a  door  connecting  the  room  in  which 
they  now  are  with  a  smaller  room.  If  the  door  is  unlock- 
ed, as  it  usually  is,  we  can  open  it  about  an  inch  without 
being  observed,  and  overhear  every  word  that  is  said." 

"  Jenny,  you  are  a  jewel !  Just  bring  me  to  that  room, 
and  I'll  pray  for  you  all  the  rest  of  my  life !" 

Jenny  Edwards  was  a  young  woman  of  about  thirty  years 
of  age,  pale,  thin,  and  angular,  with  a  strong  jaw  and  firm 
lips.  Iler  eye  was  quick  and  her  movements  prompt ;  but 
over  her  whole  face  there  were  indelible  marks  of  much 
suffering.  There  was,  too,  the  confident  air  of  one  who, 
through  anguish  of  spirit,  had  acquired  a  self-poise  and  a 
self-reliance  that  nothing  could  shake.  But  for  these  signs 
of  past  tribulation,  which  had  left  a  certain  hardness  on  her 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  127 

countenance,  she  would  have  been  a  handsome  woman.  In 
her  younger  day  she  must  have  been  very  beautiful. 

"  Beautiful,  my  dear !"  continued  Grady.  "  We  can  see 
them  and  hear  every  word  the  precious  pair  of  rascals  may 
utter." 

"  It  is  growing  dark,  and  the  room  is  not  well  lighted," 
said  Jenny  ;  "  so  there  is  little  chance  of  our  being  discov- 
ered." 

John  Grady  and  Jenny  Edwards  stood  at  the  door  con- 
necting the  two  rooms,  his  head  above  and  hers  below,  with 
eye  and  ear  at  the  little  opening  about  an  inch  wide,  and 
overheard  as  follows : 

Finch,  "  Suppose  I  deny  the  forgery,  what  proof  have 
you  ?  The  check  I  destroyed  long  ago." 

Quin.  "Go  an,  Misthcr  Finch:  jist  show  me  yer  whole 
hand  of  car-rds  at  wanst."  (It  may  be  remarked  that  Quiu's 
figures  were  of  the  gambling  and  betting  order.) 

Finch.  "  Suppose  now — only  suppose,  remember — that  I 
were  to  deny  everything,  and  have  you  arrested  as  a  black- 
mailer ;  wouldn't  that  be  a  nice  turning  of  the  tables  ?  I 
only,  mind  you,  use  this  for  argument's  sake.  But  which 
would  be  accepted  in  a  court  of  justice,  your  unsupported 
word  or  mine  ?" 

Quin.  "  Go  an,  Misther  Finch.  Play  ycr  hand  out.  I'll 
play  mine  by-and-by." 

Finch.  "Come,  Quin,  you  must  be  reasonable ;  you  must 
lower  your  demand :  if  you  don't,  I  shall  leave  you  this  in- 
stant and  denounce  you  as  a  black-mailer.  Come,  what  is 
the  lowest  figure  that  you  will  accept ;" 

John  Grady  could  see  the  two  men  from  his  place  of  ob- 
servation. It  was  cold,  clear,  heartless  intellect  against  cun- 
ning brute  force.  Quin  was  evidently  afraid  of  Finch,  and 
eyed  him  as  though  he  were  a  rattlesnake. 

Quin.  "  Not  a  cint  less  than  the  tarms  I've  already  min- 
tioned." 

Finch.  "  Then — I — shall  not — give  you — one — cent.  So, 
do  your  worst !" 

Quin.  "  Eh,  Misther  Finch,  that's  your  game,  is  it?  You 
havi-  played  yer  last  car-r-d.  It's  my  turn  now."  So  sav- 


128  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

ing,  lie  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  large 
greasy  memorandum-book.  Shaking  the  book  in  Finch's 
face,  and  then  opening  it  with  a  rapid,  impulsive  move- 
ment, he  exhibited  several  curious  pieces  of  red  blotting- 
paper,  with  ordinary  writing-paper,  which  had  been  torn  and 
crumpled,  pasted  over  it,  and  so  matched  that  the  writing 
was  quite  legible. 

Quin.  "See  here,  Misther  Finch;  do  you  know  that?  an' 
that  ?  an'  that  ?"  showing  piece  after  piece,  and  each  piece 
containing  the  words,  "William  Wilde,"  "fifteen  hundred 
dollars,"  "November  20th,  18— "  and  "Jacob  Van  Hess 
&  Co.,"  written  and  rewritten.  One  of  the  papers  con- 
tained a  fac-simile  of  the  check,  complete  in  all  its  parts, 
which  had  been  the  means  of  sending  George  Bailey  to 
State-prison.  The  body  of  the  check  was  an  excellent  imi- 
tation of  Bailey's  handwriting ;  the  signature  was  an  equally 
exact  imitation  of  that  of  Jacob  Van  Hess.  Quin  produced 
over  a  dozen  of  these  papers,  which  were  simply  the  attempts 
of  Finch,  many  times  repeated,  to  imitate  the  writing  of 
Jacob  Van  Hess  and  George  Bailey.  "  What  do  ye  think 
of  these,  Misther  Myron  Finch  ?  Whin  ye  came  down  to 
the  office  afther  dark  to  practise,  and  whin  ye  wor  thinkin' 
an'  schamin',  I  was  watchin'  ye.  I  knowed  there  wor  siven 
divils  in  yer  heart,  an'  I  kep'  me  oye  on  ye.  Bright  as  ye 
are,  ye  wor  foolish  enough  to  tear  up  yer  practisin'  papers 
an'  throw  the  pieces  into  the  waste-basket.  Afther  ye  left, 
Misther  Myron  Finch,  I  picked  these  pieces  out,  an'  sorted 
them,  an'  fitted  them  together,  an'  pasted  them  on  the  red 
blottin'- paper,  an'  here  they  are.  How  do  ye  like  them? 
That's  my  hand  ov  car-r-ds,  an'  it  bates  yours  all  hollow,  Mis- 
ther Finch.  I  howld  the  five-fingers,  an'  the  ace,  ay,  an'  the 
knave  too,  Misther  Finch.  Maybe  ye  niver  played  'forty- 
foives,'  Misther  Finch ;  but  if  ye  knew  that  ilegant  game, 
ye  would  know  that  I  howld  the  winnin'  car-r-ds,  an,'  be 

,  I'll  play  them  !  So  ye  won't  give  me  a  cint? — an'  so 

ye'll  hand  me  over  to  the  police  as  a  black-mailer,  Misther 
Myron  Finch,  marchint-prince — will  ye,  eh  ?" 

The  vulgar  insolence  of  this  vulgar  brute  would  have 
driven  a  weaker  or  a  better  man  than  Myron  Finch  to  des- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  129 

peration.  The  reiteration  of  "Misther  Finch,"  with  the 
low,  vicious  malice  of  a  wretch  whose  instincts  were  cruel 
and  savage,  was  in  itself  an  insult  of  the  grossest  kind,  and 
sufficient  to  arouse  the  wrath  of  a  man  of  the  most  saintly 
disposition.  But  Myron  Finch  was  no  ordinary  character. 
An  exhibition  of  anger,  or  a  blow  struck  in  vindication  of 
his  manhood,  even  had  he  possessed  the  physical  courage 
to  strike  it,  would  have  been  utter  ruin.  He  realized  his  dan- 
ger, and  paid  little  attention  to  the  abuse.  While  Quin  was 
pouring  out  vials  of  spite,  Finch  was  making  up  his  mind 
to  murder  him.  In  pursuance  of  his  plan,  he  let  his  head 
fall  on  his  breast  with  an  air  of  extreme  despondency,  as  if 
he  had  given  up  the  fight  and  confessed  himself  vanquished. 
"  Ruined,  ruined,  ruined  !"  Finch  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  broken 
tone.  "  Lost,  lost,  lost !  The  game  has  been  played  "  (using 
Quin's  favorite  figure)  "  and  I  am  thoroughly  beaten.  I  am 
lost — ruined !" 

Quin  eyed  him  suspiciously,  but  the  acting  of  Finch  was 
so  perfect  that  he  was  completely  deceived  and  thrown  off 
his  guard. 

Finch.  "  Make  your  own  terms,  Quin ;  you  can  take 
every  cent  I  have  in  the  world.  I  confess  myself  in  your 
power." 

Quin.  "  Now  see  here,  Misther  Finch  ;  ye  med  me  angry 
wid  yer  talk  about  black-mail  an'  all  that  sort  o'  thing.  But 
if  ye'll  only  be  rasonable,  I  won't  be  hard  on  ye.  The  day 
that  you  give  me  the  twinty-five  thousand  dollars,  Til  burn 
these  papers,  every  wan  of  them." 

Finch.  "  I  give  up  the  fight !  I'll  do  anything  to  escape 
State-prison.  Oh,  I'm  burning  with  thirst — I  feel  sick — I 
am  upset !  This,  this  has  driven  me  nearly  crazy  !  Come  to 
the  store  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  give  you  a  certified  check  for 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars ;  and — and  you  will  surely  burn 
all  the  papers — those  you  have  at  home  as  well  as  those  you 
hold  in  your  hand  ?" 

Quin.  "  I  have  them  all  here,  every  wan  of  them.  I 
swear  to  you,  Misther  Finch,  that  they  are  all  here,"  tap- 
ping the  pocket-book  as  he  replaced  it  in  his  pocket. 

Finch.  "Let  us  have  a  drink.  This  unpleasant  interview 
9 


130  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

has  parched  my  throat,  and  I  am  horribly  thirsty."  Finch 
rung  the  bell,  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  the  best  brandy  and 
some  cigars. 

Quin  was  elated  with  his  success;  he  rubbed  his  large 
red  hands  with  glee ;  his  eyes  fairly  danced  at  the  certainty 
of  receiving  on  the  morrow  the  large  sum  of  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars ;  and  physically  and  mentally  he  was  in  a 
fit  condition  to  imbibe  good  brandy  at  another's  expense. 
Finch,  on  the  contrary,  appeared  despondent  and  half  crazy, 
anxious  for  strong  drink  to  drown  his  misery. 

Quin.  " Cheer  up,  Misther  Finch!  "What  is  twinty-five 
thousand  dollars  to  you  ?  The  papers  will  be  desthroyecl, 
an'  you'll  still  be  a  very  rich  man.  Let  us  dhrink  to  our 
future  frindship." 

Timothy,  in  his  present  state  of  exhilaration,  drank  glass 
after  glass  of  strong  brandy,  while  Finch  took  little  more 
than  a  spoonful.  The  latter  held  his  glass,  after  he  had 
taken  a  sip  or  two,  below  the  table,  and  quietly  spilled  the 
liquor  on  the  floor — a  proceeding  which  the  former  could 
not  by  any  possibility  have  suspected.  The  idea  of  wast- 
ing first-rate  imported  hotel  brandy  in  this  way  appeared 
to  honest  Tim  simply  preposterous.  Myron  Finch  pre- 
tended to  be  half  drunk.  His  spirits  rose.  He  shook 
hands  with  Quin  across  the  table,  laughed  and  joked,  and 
sung  snatches  of  songs.  He  called  for  a  bottle  of  old  Bur- 
gundy, the  most  treacherous  of  wines,  which  on  top  of 
brandy  was  intoxication  of  the  most  stupid  kind.  He 
poured  out  the  red  wine,  and  as  Quin  drank  he  smacked 
his  coarse  lips,  and  pronounced  it"foine!"  Finch  sent 
the  waiter  for  some  coffee  and  the  bill;  and  pulling  out 
the  money  with  which  to  pay  the  reckoning,  purposely 
allowed  several  gold  pieces  to  roll  on  the  floor.  But  Quin, 
now  almost  stupidly  drunk,  essaying  to  stoop  to  pick  up 
the  money,  fell  from  his  chair  and  rolled  to  the  floor;  and 
before  he  had  time  to  recover  himself,  Finch  poured  the 
contents  of  a  small  vial,  already  uncorked,  into  his  wine. 
As  soon  as  Timothy  had  regained  his  seat,  Finch  said, 
"  Come,  Quin,  one  more  glass  before  the  coffee  arrives." 
Both  villains  staggered  to  their  feet,  the  one  pretending  to 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  131 

be  and  the  other  really  drunlc,  clinked  glasses,  and  swallow- 
ed the  wine.  The  waiter  handed  in  the  coffee,  was  paid  the 
reckoning,  and  received  a  large  fee,  with  which  he  disap- 
peared. For  a  minute  or  two  Finch  and  Quin  sipped  their 
coffee  and  smoked  their  cigars  in  silence.  Finally  Finch 
closed  his  eyes,  threw  his  head  back  on  the  chair,  and  re- 
marked that  he  was  dreadfully  sleepy.  Quin  began  to 
nod.  Every  minute  or  so  his  companion  would  open  his 
eyes,  rub  them,  and  then  cast  a  rapid  glance  at  the  drunken 
sot  before  him.  At  last  Quin  fell  into  a  deep  sleep ;  for, 
what  with  the  brandy  and  cigars,  and  what  with  the  forty 
drops  of  laudanum  which  Finch  had  slyly  dropped  into  the 
liquor,  a  cannon  fired  at  his  ear  would  scarcely  have  aroused 
Quin  from  the  drunken  stupor  that  now  oppressed  him. 
He  breathed  stertorously,  like  one  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy ; 
and,  owing  to  the  position  of  his  head,  the  usual  red  of  his 
face  had  changed  to  a  purple,  and  his  heavy  snoring  could 
be  distinctly  heard  by  the  keen  and  deeply  interested  lis- 
teners in  the  next  room.  But,  singular  to  relate,  the  more 
soundly  Quin  slept  the  more  wakeful  Finch  became;  he 
became  not  only  wakeful  but  alert  and  cautious.  He  rose 
from  his  seat,  looked  at  the  door  by  which  the  waiter  had 
retired,  nay,  examined  the  very  hall  outside,  but  never  once 
thought  of  looking  at  the  door  leading  into  the  small  bed- 
room, taking  it  for  granted  that  that  door  was  securely 
locked ;  and  then  on  tiptoe,  with  the  sly  and  stealthy  step 
of  a  cat,  he  softly  approached  Quin,  paused  for  a  moment, 
and,  observing  no  change  in  the  position  or  breathing  of 
the  insensible  sot,  deliberately  put  his  hand  in  the  breast- 
pocket of  Quin's  coat  and  abstracted  therefrom  the  memo- 
randum-book containing  the  fatal  "practice"  papers — the 
imitations  of  George  Bailey's  handwriting.  "Ha!  Timo- 
thy, you  beast,  snore  away !"  he  whispered ;  "  these  proofs 
will  be  destroyed  before  I  sleep  to-night."  He  restored 
the  memorandum-book  to  Quin's  pocket,  and,  taking  out 
his  own  pocket-book  in  which  to  put  them,  paused  for  a 
moment,  and  said  to  himself,  "I  had  better  burn  them. 
Dead  men  and  burnt  papers  tell  no  tales !"  He  arose  to 
walk  over  to  the  fire  to  execute  his  purpose,  and  had  ac- 


132  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

complislied  about  two-thirds  of  the  distance,  when  he  found 
the  wrist  of  his  right  hand,  which  held  the  fatal  papers, 
grasped  with  a  grip  of  iron,  and  heard  the  words  hissed 
into  his  ear  in  a  low,  terrible  whisper, 

"  Utter  one  syllable,  and  I  hand  you  over  to  the  police !" 

Before  Finch  could  recover  from  the  shock  of  amaze- 
ment and  fright  caused  by  the  suddenness  of  the  assault, 
John  Grady  had  snatched  the  papers  out  of  Finch's  hand 
and  quietly  crammed  them  into  his  own  trousers'  pocket. 

"  Speak  one  word  and  you  are  lost !  I  have  a  witness 
here  whom  you  have  good  reason  to  know.  Come  here, 
Jenny ;  take  a  look  at  the  cowardly  scoundrel,  forger,  and 
robber,  whom  you  once  thought  an  angel  of  light  and 
power." 

The  entrance  of  this  woman  almost  paralyzed  Finch. 
Had  her  ghost  arisen  from  the  grave  he  could  not  have 
been  more  astounded.  He  stared  at  her  with  wide-open 
eyes,  and  seemed,  in  the  daze  caused  by  her  presence,  to 
have  forgotten  his  danger,  and  the  object  for  which  he  had 
committed  robbery  from  the  person  of  Quin.  Finch  stag- 
gered to  a  chair,  and  murmured,  " Jenny  Edwards!  Jenny 
Edwards !  Jenny  Edwards !" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "Jenny  Edwards,  whose  happiness 
you  ruthlessly  destroyed — whom  you  first  betrayed  and  then 
abandoned.  You  supposed  I  had  sunk  from  one  slum  to 
another,  until  finally  I  had  found  a  nameless  grave  in  Pot- 
ter's Field.  But  no,  Myron  Finch !  I  might  be  deceived  by 
a  great  love,  but  never  by  a  baser  passion.  I  arose  out  of 
my  misery,  asked  my  God  to  forgive  me,  and  here  I  am, 
with  the  power  to  punish  you ;  and  revenge  is  sweet !  Oh, 
what  a  base  villain  you  are !  With  a  fair  exterior  and  good 
powers  of  mind,  you  used  your  talents  to  ruin  all  who  ap- 
proached you.  You  drove  the  poor  school-master,  Scroggs, 
from  his  position ;  you  killed  my  good  uncle  in  Vermont, 
who  had  been  a  father  to  you ;  you  ruined  and  cruelly  sent 
to  State-prison  George  Bailey,  who  had  been  your  benefac- 
tor ;  and  me  you  heartlessly  cast  off  in  a  great  city  to  rot 
and  die  !  Money  has  been  the  god  of  your  idolatry — money 
for  your  own  sensual  gratification.  For  this  you  flung  me 


GEOKGE  BAILEY.  133 

aside  and  married  a  poor  weak  creature,  whom  you  never 
even  respected — a  weak  creature  who  had  not  the  strength  or 
the  courage  to  save  her  noble  lover,  as  she  might  have  done 
by  showing  her  idiot  of  a  father  that  George  Bailey  could 
no  more  commit  a  crime  than  you  could  perform  an  act 
of  virtue.  And  so  you  grew  rich  and  prosperous,  Myron 
Finch — lived  in  a  grand  house  and  drove  your  carriage ; 
you  kept  your  steam-yacht  and  your  fast  horses ;  and,  beast 
that  you  are,  you  were  false  to  the  wife  who  brought  you 
fortune  and  position.  Oh,  I  have  watched  you  !  oh,  I  know 
you !  Often  and  often,  Myron  Finch,  when  I  was  strug- 
gling out  of  my  misery;  when  I  feared  that  remorse  and 
despair  would  drive  me  insane ;  when  I  was  starving  with 
hunger,  and  shivering  with  cold,  and  fighting  down  temp- 
tation— for  I  was  young,  and  considered  beautiful  in  those 
days — and  saw  you,  with  all  your  crimes,  rich  and  prosper- 
ous, I  was  tempted  to  doubt  the  justice  of  God,  and  in 
despair  to  commit  suicide.  I  had  one  satisfaction,  Myron 
Finch  —  your  rich  wife  brought  you  neither  comfort  nor 
happiness.  Oh,  I  watched  you,  and  was  delighted  to  find 
that  you  mutually  hated  each  other !" 

John  Grady  listened  to  this  outpouring  of  wrath  and  in- 
dignation in  silence ;  Finch,  in  abject  fear  and  trembling. 
If  the  truth  must  be  told,  Jenny's  passion  for  this  wicked 
man  was  not  wholly  dead.  At  times  she  would  have  killed 
him  with  her  own  hands,  and  again  the  memory  of  her  year 
of  happiness  in  her  New  England  home  with  her  young  and 
handsome  lover  would  come  back  like  the  memory  of  a 
sweet  dream,  but  a  sweet  dream  obscured  by  heavy  black 
clouds.  In  her  lonely  musings  she  had  built  castles  in  the 
air,  and  in  one  of  these  airy,  unsubstantial  edifices  she  had 
placed  Myron  Finch,  reformed  by  her  means.  Had  Myron 
Finch  been  free  from  his  present  wife,  and  possessed  of  all 
the  wealth  of  the  world,  Jenny  Edwards  would  not  have 
married  him,  to  be  taken  by  her  and  treated  as  a  husband. 
She  would  have  had  the  ceremony  performed,  and  would 
have  left  him  the  next  minute.  This  was  her  feeling  when 
her  practical  mind  reflected  by  daylight;  her  midnight  mus- 
ings and  fancies  were  only  vagaries  of  the  imagination, 


134  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

which  could  never  be  vitalized  by  action.  It  was  not  her 
intention  now  to  send  him  to  State-prison  for  life.  There 
could  be  no  reform  there :  and  it  must  be  confessed  that 
Jenny  Edwards's  great  aim  in  life  was  to  reform  Myron 
Finch,  and  make  him  right  the  wrong  he  had  done  her. 
How  she  was  to  accomplish  this  aim  she  did  not  know,  but 
she  had  a  vague  idea  that  God  would  interpose  to  show  her 
the  way ;  for  Jenny  had  a  pure,  simple  faith  in  the  religious 
teachings  of  her  early  youth.  When  she  had  finished  her 
"  lecture  "  to  Finch,  and  almost  exhausted  herself  by  the 
force  and  vehemence  of  her  language,  she  turned  quietly  to 
her  uncle,  and  said, 

"Wake  that  man,  if  you  can;  the  drug  may  kill  him, 
and  then  we  shall  have  a  case  of  murder  on  our  hands. 
We  ought  to  let  the  carrion  rot,  and  his  partner  swing  for 
it ;  but,  after  all,  he  is  one  of  God's  creatures,  with  an  im- 
mortal soul,  I  suppose — if  such  as  he  and  Finch  have  souls 
— to  be  saved.  Ring  for  a  waiter,  and  ask  him  to  bring 
you  some  strong  coffee,  which  is  the  best  antidote  for  poi- 
soning by  laudanum.  Kub  him,  shake  him,  and  pour  the 
coffee  down  his  throat."  Then  turning  to  Finch,  who,  in 
a  kind  of  stupor,  was  watching  the  efforts  of  Grady  to  re- 
store Quin  to  consciousness,  Jenny  pointed  imperiously  to 
the  door,  and  said,  "  Go  !  Begone !  The  very  sight  of  you 
sickens  my  soul !" 

Finch  went  out  as  he  was  ordered,  muttering,  almost  un- 
consciously, "  Jenny  Edwards !  Jenny  Edwards  come  back 
to  torture  me !" 

The  vigorous  efforts  of  Grady  soon  roused  Quin  to  a 
partial  state  of  wakefulness  and  sobriety ;  and  having  ascer- 
tained the  number  of  one  of  his  many  stores,  the  worthy 
"wine-merchant"  was  hustled  into  a  cab  and  sent  to  his 
home. — John  Grady  carried  the  good  news  to  his  wife. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  135 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  Look  here  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this." — SHAKSPEARE. 
"  We  can  easily  learn  to  be  vicious  without  a  master." — SENECA. 
"  A  good  man  and  an  angel !  these  between, 
How  thin  the  barrier !" — YOUNG. 

FINCH  walked  up  Broadway  toward  his  home — if  home 
it  might  be  called,  from  which  his  wife  had  fled  with  her 
three  children — like  a  man  in  a  dream,  trying  to  recall  all 
the  incidents  of  the  evening.  The  cool  air  and  the  prevail- 
ing quiet  refreshed  his  mind  and  body,  and  very  soon  his 
clear  intellect  grasped  the  catastrophe  in  its  true  light. 
Had  there  been  but  one  witness,  he  would  have  brazened 
it  out  and  denied  everything.  But,  in  addition  to  Grady, 
whom  he  remembered  as  an  old  enemy  after  Bailey's  con- 
viction, here  was  this  Avoman,  who  had  such  good  cause  to 
hate  him,  suddenly  arisen,  as  it  were,  from  the  dead  to  strike 
the  fatal  blow.  He  perceived  that  all  his  money  could  not 
save  him  from  conviction,  nor  buy  up  either  of  these  two 
formidable  enemies.  Before  he  reached  Union  Square  he 
had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  city  of  New  York 
Avas  no  longer  a  safe  place  of  residence  for  him.  He  must 
abscond  ;  he  must  fly  to  some  country  with  which  the 
United  States  had  no  extradition  treaty ;  but  he  must  not 
fly  a  poor  man.  He  had  committed  too  many  dangerous 
crimes  to  obtain  wealth,  and  a  portion  of  this  wealth  he 
must  carry  into  some  foreign  land.  To  wander  about 
again  seeking  employment,  to  endure  the  rebuffs  of  mer- 
chants, such  as  he  himself  had  administered  to  his  own 
clerks,  and  to  feel  the  stings  of  poverty  as  he  had  felt  them 
eleven  or  twelve  years  ago,  were  simply  intolerable — he 
might  as  well  go  to  State-prison  at  once.  It  was  evident 
that  Jenny  Edwards,  for  some  reason  which  he  could  not 
comprehend,  did  not  desire  his  immediate  arrest,  and  that 


136  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

John  Grady  was  controlled  by  her  wishes.  But  how  long 
would  this  state  of  feeling  last?  They  might  have  him  ar- 
rested at  any  moment.  As  he  pondered  these  matters,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Grady,  having  obtained  posses- 
sion of  the  proofs  of  his  forgery,  and  having  seen  the  act 
of  robbery,  would  use  his  power  over  him  to  extort  money, 
lie  saw,  too,  that  Grady  was  a  totally  different  order  of 
man  from  Quin.  Before  he  reached  his  house,  his  mind 
was  made  up  to  convert  all  his  stocks  and  bonds  into  ready 
money,  and,  with  about  one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  retire 
to  South  America,  and  live  like  a  gentleman  on  the  inter- 
est. His  real  estate  and  business  he  would  sacrifice,  as  a 
matter  of  necessity. 

He  opened  a  safe  in  his  bedroom,  and  took  out  all  his 
papers.  With  lead-pencil  he  carefully  computed  the  value 
of  his  railroad  bonds  and  stocks,  and  his  coal  and  mining 
stocks.  He  took  out  all  his  jewellery.  He  went  to  the 
front-room  in  the  second  story,  and  with  a  skeleton-key 
opened  his  wife's  private  boxes  and  drawers  and  ransacked 
them  all.  Mrs.  Finch,  having  fled  the  house  in  a  hurry, 
had  not  yet  called  for  her  private  property,  and,  unfortu- 
nately for  her,  her  valuable  jewellery,  worth  many  thousands 
of  dollars,  was  left  behind.  This  her  husband  seized,  and 
wrenched  the  precious  stones  out  of  their  settings.  The 
diamonds,  the  rubies,  the  emeralds,  he  placed  in  a  little  cas- 
ket, and  the  gold  he  cast  into  the  sink  in  the  bath-room. 
"  This,"  he  said,  grimly,  "  will  pay  me  to  some  extent  for 
the  houses  and  lands,  which  are  not  portable  property." 

After  securing  his  property,  he  stole  quietly  out  of  the 
house,  entered  an  omnibus,  and  took  a  room  in  a  second- 
class  hotel.  He  feared  to  remain  in  his  own  house,  and  he 
did  not  intend  to  enter  again  his  own  office.  He  left  his 
three  children  behind  him  without  one  pang  of  remorse,  or 
the  slightest  feeling  of  regret.  He  slept  soundly  that  night, 
because  he  was  convinced  of  his  security,  and  had  no  doubts 
of  his  escape.  Finch  was  the  personification  of  selfishness. 
It  is  doubtful  if  he  ever  realized  his  sins  against  his  own 
soul,  or  his  crimes  against  his  fellow-men.  Such  men  as  he 
may  feel,  and  in  fact  do  feel,  acute  fear,  but  remorse  and  re- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  137 

pentance  are  to  them  unknown  emotions.  Cold-blooded  as 
fishes,  they  seem  as  devoid  of  affection  as  of  moral  emotion. 

The  next  morning  Finch  disposed  of  all  his  bonds  and 
stocks,  and  converted  them  into  cash.  This,  with  the  pre- 
cious stones  stolen  from  his  wife,  and  his  own  jewellery, 
made  him  worth  about  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand 
dollars.  Before  twelve  o'clock  Myron  Finch  was  quietly 
waiting  at  the  depot  in  Jersey  City  for  the  one  o'clock  train 
to  Philadelphia.  At  four  o'clock  he  was  lost,  in  an  obscure 
lodging  near  the  shipping,  in  a  large  city.  Toward  evening 
he  went  out  and  bought  two  common  trunks,  such  as  sailors 
take  on  long  voyages,  and  two  or  three  suits  of  plain,  un- 
fashionable clothing :  he  went  to  a  barber,  and  had  his  hair 
cropped  short  and  his  face  clean  shaven  :  he  went  to  a  drug 
store  and  purchased  some  black  hair- dye;  and  to  a  cigar 
store  and  purchased  some  tobacco.  He  re-entered  his  room, 
colored  his  face  with  tobacco-water,  and  dyed  his  hair,  his 
eyebrows,  and  his  eyelashes.  His  disguise  was  now  so 
thorough  that  it  is  more  than  probable  that  even  Jenny 
Edwards  would  have  failed  to  recognize  him. 

One  thing  was  very  remarkable  about  this  man  Finch — 
he  rarely  smiled,  and  he  was  never  known  to  laugh.  Even 
in  his  sensual  pleasures  he  was  grave  and  sedate,  and  he  al- 
ways bore  the  exterior  of  a  decorous  gentleman.  As  he 
finished  the  work  of  disguising  himself,  and  saw,  as  he  crit- 
ically scanned  himself  in  the  glass,  how  complete  it  was,  not 
even  the  shadow  of  a  smile  passed  over  his  face.  He  sim- 
ply said,  "  I  think  this  will  do."  A  villain  with  more  heart 
and  a  little  sense  of  humor  would  have  uttered  at  least  a 
low  laugh  of  satisfaction  at  the  perfection  of  the  change. 
Finch  did  not  even  hate  anything  except  he  first  feared  it ; 
and  when  the  fear  was  gone  so  was  his  hatred.  Yesterday 
he  feared  Quin ;  to-day  he  never  once  thought  of  him. 
This  morning,  while  disposing  of  his  property  for  cash,  he 
feared  and  hated  Grady  ;  to-night,  all  danger  being  past,  he 
had  no  ill-feeling  toward  him.  The  only  time  he  had  ever 
hated  Bailey  was  when  he  returned  from  State-prison,  and 
there  was  danger  that  he  might  wreak  vengeance  for  the 
wrong  that  had  been  inflicted  upon  him.  All  Finch's  plans 


133  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

were  for  the  future.  His  money  would  enable  him  to  gratify 
all  his  gross  appetites  ;  and,  provided  he  could  do  so,  it  mat- 
tered little  to  him  whether  he  lived  in  Vermont,  New  York, 
Europe,  or  South  America — at  least  so  he  fancied.  "  Gold," 
he  repeated  to  himself,  "  is  ease,  pleasure,  self-indulgence  in 
every  land  and  clime,  from  Labrador  to  Japan." 

Thoroughly  disguised,  and  dressed  in  the  garb  of  a  com- 
mercial agent,  Finch  found  a  brig  bound  for  Valparaiso,  in 
which  he  took  a  small  state-room  as  cabin  passenger,  under 
the  name  of  Alexander  Brown.  He  would  have  preferred 
a  larger  and  more  commodious  vessel  than  the  William 
Penn  (for  that  was  the  name  of  the  brig),  but  feared  to  re- 
main any  longer  so  near  the  scene  of  his  crimes. 

While  Myron  Finch  is  on  his  way  toward  Cape  Horn,  we 
shall  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  hero  of  our  story. 

When  George  Bailey  had  reached  San  Francisco,  he  found 
Walter  Wilde's  health  much  worse  than  he  had  expected 
from  the  tone  of  the  letters  which  the  young  man  had  sent 
to  his  father  and  sister.  About  one  year  ago  he  had  grad- 
uated head  of  his  class  in  Columbia  College — a  feat  which 
almost  cost  him  his  life.  His  frame,  never  very  strong  at 
the  best,  had  been  worn  down  by  excess  of  study ;  and 
though  his  father  had  sent  him  to  California  more  for  the 
purpose  of  improving  his  health  by  a  sea-voyage  and  change 
of  climate  than  for  the  sake  of  the  business — for  any  one  of 
his  clerks  could  have  attended  to  that — it  was  really  a  great 
mistake  to  send  him  so  far  away  from  friends  and  kindred. 
Besides,  the  winding  up  of  the  financial  affairs  of  the  branch 
bank  required  skill,  patience,  and  experience  —  qualities  in 
which  the  young  student  was  very  deficient.  Walter  Wilde 
was  worried  and  lonely ;  and  when  Bailey  came  to  take  his 
place  he  found  him  homesick,  and  suffering  from  a  cough 
of  long  standing.  Walter  was  exceedingly  relieved  when 
Bailey  assumed  the  charge  of  closing  up  the  business.  Ev- 
ery day,  after  a  hard  day's  work,  Bailey  had  a  carriage  at 
the  door,  and  almost  compelled  the  youth,  who  was  very 
fond  of  reading,  to  lay  aside  his  books  and  come  out  for  a 
long  drive  outside  the  city  limits.  At  first  young  Walter, 
with  the  indolence  of  ill-health  and  much  reading,  almost 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  139 

resented  the  importunity  of  his  friend ;  but  in  a  short  time 
these  rides,  by  the  force  of  habit,  and  on  account  of  the  ex- 
hilaration of  spirits  which  the  bracing  air  of  the  country 
aroused,  became  exceedingly  pleasant.  Bailey  sought  the 
advice  of  the  ablest  physician  in  San  Francisco,  and  had 
Wilde  carefully  and  minutely  examined.  The  medical  di- 
agnosis was  favorable :  "  No  organic  disease ;  delicacy  of  con- 
stitution, and  irritation  of  the  bronchial  tubes ;  nourishing 
diet,  plenty  of  sleep,  fresh  air  and  moderate  exercise,  and  a 
tonic  of  quinine  and  iron."  Walter  Wilde  laughed  at  the 
examination,  half  in  fun  and  half  in  anger.  He  had  a  sort 
of  respectful  dread  of  his  grave,  earnest  nurse  and  man  of 
business ;  but  having  the  fine  blood  of  the  Wildes  in  his 
veins,  and  all  their  generous  impulses,  and  seeing  Bailey  day 
after  day  drive  him  out,  or,  if  the  day  was  unfit  for  a  drive, 
read  aloud  for  his  amusement,  or  talk  to  him  by  the  hour, 
he  soon  came  to  entertain  not  only  a  profound  respect  but 
a  deep  affection  for  his  untiring  friend.  Bailey  would  re- 
mind him  of  his  meals  and  his  medicine,  and  would  be  inex- 
orable until  the  orders  of  the  physician  were  conformed  to. 

One  unpleasant  afternoon  the  two  young  men  were  sitting 
in  their  own  parlor  of  the  hotel ;  and  Bailey  was  reading 
aloud,  in  a  deep,  sonorous  tone,  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon" 
with  a  tremulous  pathos  in  his  voice  more  pitiful  than  tears ; 
and  his  friend  was  watching  the  lights  and  shadows  flit  over 
the  reader's  face  with  a  peculiar  look,  as  if  trying  to  read 
his  character.  At  the  close  of  a  stanza  Bailey  raised  his 
eyes  and  encountered  the  inquiring  gaze  of  Wilde. 

"George,  old  boy,  you're  the  best  fellow  alive  !  Where 
on  earth  did  you  learn  to  be  so  gentle  and  so  patient?  I 
was  looking  at  you  and  wondering  as  you  read." 

"  Nonsense,  Walter !  I  am  neither  gentle  nor  patient ;  but, 
on  the  contrary,  I  am  hot-tempered  and  impulsive." 

"  Then  why  have  you  been  so  patient  and  gentle  with 
such  an  ill-conditioned  fellow  as  I  ?  Why,  when  you  first 
came  here  I  almost  disliked  you  as  a  prig,  and  scarcely  treat- 
ed you  with  decent  respect." 

"  I  have  done  nothing,"  replied  Bailoy,  "  but  my  duty. 
Your  father  sent  me  to  take  the  trouble  of  business  off  your 


140  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

shoulders,  and  to  help  restore  you  to  health ;  and — and — 
your  sister  requested  me  to  —  to  be  a  brother  to  yon,  or 
something  of  the  sort." 

"Say,  Bailey,  do  you  know  my  sister?" 

The  young  man  asked  this  question  after  a  long  pause, 
and  it  caused  Bailey  to  blush  a  dark  red. 

"Ye-e-s;  I  had  the  honor  of  seeing  her  a  few  times. 
The  first  time  was  when  I  went  to  her  to  thank  her  for  her 
great  goodness  to  my  poor  mother,  and  when  she  begged 
your  father,  for  that  mother's  sake,  to  give  me  employment. 
During  the  week  before  the  steamer  sailed  I  saw  her  almost 
every  day." 

"  Got  you  employment,  did  she  ?  Oh,  I  remember,  now  : 
your  mother  was  the  old  lady,  the  doctor's  widow,  for 
whom  Edith  procured  a  situation,  and  in  whom  she  took 
such  great  interest.  Oh,  I  remember  it  all  very  well.  So 
you  are  the  son  of  that  old  lady,  Edith's  friend  ?  And 
where  the  deuce  were  you  all  this  time? — sowing  your 
wild-oats,  or  off  on  a  whaling  voyage  ?" 

"  I  was  neither  sowing  wild-oats  nor  sailing  on  the  sea ; 
I  was  doing  the  State  some  service,"  replied  Bailey,  with 
gritn  irony.  "  Some  day  I  shall  tell  you  the  honorable  em- 
ployment that  the  State  assigned  me." 

"  But  Edith,"  pursued  the  young  man,  meditatively, "  does 
not  usually  take  to  strangers ;  in  fact  she  is  rather  shy  and 
reticent,  except  with  those  whom  she  likes.  So  she  made 
the  governor  give  you  a  place  in  the  bank  ?  Bravo  !  that's 
like  her:  once  she  takes  a  good  thing  into  her  wise  little 
head,  she  never  ceases  until  it  is  accomplished." 

"My  mother  died  in  her  arms:  she  was  my  mother's 
dearest  and  best  friend.  Can  you  wonder  that  she  took  an 
interest  in  the  son  ?" 

Bailey  jerked  out  these  sentences,  partly  by  way  of  apol- 
ogy for  Edith's  interest  in  him,  a  stranger. 

"  I  do  not  wonder  in  the  least.  Why,  George,  that  girl 
had  a  whole  regiment  of  old  men  and  women  whom  she  took 
care  of.  Don't  be  offended.  I  do  not  mean  to  class  your 
mother  among  them.  I  simply  wish  to  show  you  that  she  is 
the  kindest,  the  bravest,  the  purest,  the  best  little  woman  on 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  141 

the  face  of  the  earth !  Ah,  if  you  only  knew  her  as  I  do, 
you  would  worship  her !  What  a  wise  little  creature  she 
has  always  been !  She  is  two  years  older  than  I.  From 
the  time  that  my  mother  died  she  has  been  a  mother,  a 
more  than  mother,  to  me ;  always  helping  me  in  my  stud- 
ies, always  providing  for  me,  always  taking  care  of  me. 
She  was  so  little,  and  so  wise,  I  nicknamed  her  'grandma.' 
She  seemed,  too,  to  know  everything.  She  used  to  help  me 
with  my  Latin  and  my  mathematics ;  and — would  you  be- 
lieve it  ? — after  I  became  a  '  soph,'  she  took  private  lessons 
from  an  old  Scotch  professor  on  the  sly,  so  that  she  might 
have  the  pleasure  of  assisting  me,  her  stupid  grandson.  I 
don't  believe  that  I  could  have  graduated  at  all,  much  less 
with  honor,  had  it  not  been  for  Edith.  Now,  old  fellow, 
don't  be  offended  at  what  I  said  a  moment  ago;  for  I 
am  sure  your  mother  must  have  been  a  lady — I  mean, 
a  real  born  and  bred  lady,  not  one  of  your  parvenu  vul- 
gar ladies — or  my  sister  never  would  have  made  her  a 
friend." 

George,  instead  of  being  offended,  could  have  listened  all 
night  to  Edith's  brother  (though  scarcely  to  any  other  man, 
except  her  father)  pronouncing  eulogies  on  the  woman 
whom  he  has  idolized  from  the  first  moment  that  they 
met.  Bailey  continued  to  speak  of  his  mother,  but  for  the 
purpose  of  hiding  his  confusion  when  Edith  Wilde's  name 
was  mentioned. 

"  Yes,  Walter,  my  mother  was,  as  you  say,  a  real  lady'in 
every  sense  of  the  word — polished,  refined,  good,  and  chari- 
table— and  she  suffered  unmerited  punishment.  Oh !  oh  ! 
had  she  only  lived  to  see  me  this  day  in  my  present  posi- 
tion, and  to  know  who  put  me  in  the  way  of  .well-doing! 
But  perhaps  her  good  spirit  watches  over  me  and  knows 
all.  I  trust  it  is  so." 

"  But  what  most  astonishes  me,"  said  Walter,  "  is  your 
gentleness  and  patience  with  a  cross-grained,  irritable  fellow 
like  me.  I  noticed  your  anger  the  other  day  when,  cross- 
ing the  bridge  on  foot,  the  hackman  almost  ran  over  me ; 
and  I  observed  the  way  in  which  you  caught  the  horse's 
head,  and  hurled  horse,  man,  and  hack  from  the  arch  of  the 


142  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

bridge  back  to  the  street.  Whew !  what  a  giant's  strength! 
What  wouldn't  I  give  to  have  your  muscle !" 

"  For  ten  years  that  muscle  was  admirably  developed  by 
hard  work  on  a  wholesome  but  spare  diet,"  Bailey  replied, 
in  a  tone  of  dry  irony. 

" So  long?  What  the  deuce  put  such  a  severe  course  of 
training  into  your  head?  Were  you  practising  as  a  pro- 
fessional gymnast  ?" 

"  No,  not  a"  gymnast,  but  a — a —  Did  you  know  a  mer- 
chant in  New  York  named  Myron  Finch  ?  He  was  the  man 
who  put  me  in  the  service  of  the  State." 

"  I  knew  him  but  slightly.  If  I  remember  correctly,  he 
was  a  light-colored  man,  with  light  eyes,  light  hair,  and 
light  all  over — almost  like  an  Albino." 

"  Yes,"  continued  Bailey,  "  that  is  the  man  ;  light  with- 
out, but  black  within ;  and  particularly  black  about  the 
heart  and  white  about  the  liver.  That  man  put  me  on  my 
course  of  physical  and  mental  training." 

At  the  thought  of  Finch,  Bailey's  eye  and  brow  became 
dark  and  fierce.  His  constant  struggle  against  the  desire 
for  vengeance  was  difficult  and  trying ;  and  nothing  pre- 
vented his  seeking  out  the  villain  and  punishing  him  with 
his  own  hands  but  his  absorbing  love  of  Edith  Wilde.  In 
spite  of  all  his  good  resolutions,  the  old,  deadly,  vindictive 
feeling  would  arise  in  his  heart  and  shake  his  whole  frame 
with  its  intensity. 

Walter  Wilde,  unconscious  of  the  storm  he  had  raised 
in  the  heart  of  his  friend,  rattled  away  without  reserve  con- 
cerning Edith,  his  father,  and  himself.  For  Bailey  he  now 
entertained  feelings  of  esteem  and  affection ;  for  the  young 
man  was  not  slow  to  perceive  the  solid  intellect  and  sound 
sense,  as  well  as  the  Titanic  strength,  which  had  aroused 
his  admiration;  and  Bailey  loved  Edith's  brother.  He 
would  have  loved  Edith's  cat,  or  dog,  or  bird,  or  glove — 
anything,  in  fact,  that  belonged  to  Edith. 

Finally,  the  business  was  wound  up,  and  the  two  friends 
took  their  passage  in  the  good  ship  Sebastian  Cabot,  bound 
for  New  York.  Bailey  had  informed  Warrenton,  Wilde  & 
Co.  of  the  success  of  his  financial  operations,  and  "Walter 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  143 

had  written  to  his  sister  a  long  fraternal  letter,  eulogizing 
his  friend,  and  speaking  in  the  most  glowing  terms  of  the 
pleasures  of  a  long  sea-voyage  around  the  Horn. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  Yet  is  there  one  more  cursed  than  they  all, 
-  That  canker-worm,  that  monster,  Jealousie." 

SPENSER. 

MORE  than  five  months  have  rolled  away  since  the  clip- 
per ship  Sebastian  Cabot  passed  through  the  Golden  Gate 
and  sailed  toward  the  Southern  Cross,  and  not  a  word  has 
been  heard  of  her.  It  has  been  generally  supposed  that  she 
foundered  in  one  of  those  terrific  gales  which  frequently 
occur  south  of  Cape  Horn.  As  day  after  day  and  month 
after  month  passed  without  tidings  of  the  ship,  long  over- 
due, Air.  William  Wilde  and  his  daughter  became  extremely 
uneasy,  and  this  uneasiness  gradually  grew  into  a  chilling 
fear.  Every  afternoon,  as  her  father  came  home,  Edith 
mutely  searched  his  eyes  for  news ;  but  the  only  reply  of 
Mr.  Wilde  was  a  sad-  shake  of  the  head,  more  eloquent  than 
any  language  that  he  could  have  employed.  Sometimes 
they  sat  down  to  their  cheerless  dinner  without  exchanging 
a  single  word ;  and  at  other  times  Edith  would  simply  say, 
"  No  tidings  yet,  father  ?"  and  he  would  reply,  in  a  dreary 
monotone,  "  None,  my  child,  none  !" 

Once  Edith  asked  him  if  the  insurance  companies  had 
given  up  the  ship  as  lost,  and  he  was  obliged  to  say  that 
they  had.  Mr.  Wilde  disliked  to  talk  on  the  subject ;  and 
when  forced  to  reply  to  the  questions  asked  him,  did  so  in 
monosyllables,  and  then  relapsed  into  a  brooding  silence. 
As  an  experienced  merchant  and  banker,  he  well  knew  that 
ships  traversed  beaten  tracks  on  the  ocean  almost  as  travel- 
lers do  between  great  cities  on  the  land.  Were  she  still 
afloat,  some  ship  in  passing  would  have  seen  and  spoken 
her.  Mr.  Wilde,  therefore,  had  less  reason  to  hope  than 
Editli ;  he  believed  in  his  heart  that  the  Sebastian  Cabot 


144  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

had  foundered,  and  that  all  hands  were  lost.  To  him  this 
was  a  bitter  blow ;  for  he  had  fondly  hoped  that  his  own 
name,  through  Walter,  would  be  preserved  in  the  great 
banking-house  of  which  he  was  the  principal  manager. 
Nor  was  this  ambition  inconsistent  with  his  parental  love, 
which  was  deep  and  strong ;  indeed,  the  one  feeling  seem- 
ed to  intensify  the  other.  lie  had  toiled  all  his  life  for 
money ;  not  for  its  own  sake,  but  for  the  pleasure  and  ex- 
citement he  found  in  making  it ;  and  when  once  made,  no 
man  could  be  more  willing  to  expend  it,  or  more  liberal  in 
his  charities.  What  he  valued  most,  next  to  his  own  and 
his  children's  honor,  was  the  good  name  of  the  house  of 
Warrenton,  Wilde  <fe  Co.  Had  his  only  son  lived  to  take 
his  place,  had  he  seen  him  an  able  merchant  and  banker,  he 
would  have  been  pleased  to  say  to  his  Creator,  "Now  let 
thy  servant  depart  in  peace."  The  instinct  of  living  again 
in  our  children,  common  to  strong  natures,  predominated  in 
the  mind  of  Mr.  Wilde. 

One  afternoon  he  came  home  looking  so  pale,  weary,  and 
care-worn,  that  Edith,  very  much  alarmed,  exclaimed, 

"  Father,  father !  what  ails  you  ?  You  arc  sick !  You 
have  bad  news — I  know  you  have :  I  see  it  in  your  face — 
I  see  it  in  your  eye.  Tell  me  at  once.  Anything  is  better 
than  suspense." 

"  My  darling — "  But  Mr.  Wilde  could  say  no  more. 
He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  groaned  in  agony. 

"  Father !  dear,  dear  father !"  and  she  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead.  "  Fa- 
ther, dear,  I  know  the  worst :  the  ship  is  surely  lost,  and 
my  brother  and  my  —  brother  is  drowned!"  The  blank 
was  meant  for  Bailey,  but  even  in  that  hour  of  woe  she  had 
sufficient  self-restraint  to  refrain  from  mentioning  his  name. 
The  look  of  agony  in  her  eye  and  over  her  face  was  some- 
thing appalling;  and  yet  in  that  awful  moment,  when  her 
misery  was  more  than  twice  as  great  as  her  father's,  her 
first  thought  was  to  comfort  the  old  man. 

In  broken  accents  and  in  disjointed  sentences  Mr.  Wilde 
informed  Edith  that  a  ship  had  arrived  that  morning  the 
captain  of  which  reported  that  off  Cape  Ilorn  he  saw  por- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  145 

tions  of  a  wrecked  vessel,  and  part  of  the  bow  containing 
the  letters  Sebas —  Ca — .  "There  is  no  longer  the  least 
doubt,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  my  poor  Walter !  Oh,  my  son, 
my  son  !  Would  that  I  had  died  instead  of  you !"  The 
gray-haired  man  wept  like  a  child. 

Edith  uttered  not  a  word,  shed  not  a  tear :  she  turned 
the  color  of  marble,  but  did  not  swoon.  She  kept  quietly 
smoothing  her  father's  white  hair  and  brow,  and  gently  try- 
ing to  comfort  him.  As  she  mechanically  stroked  his  hair 
or  his  hands,  her  weird,  wide-open  gray  eyes  gazed  into  the 
fire  with  a  far-off  look.  The  supreme  suffering  of  her  soul 
could  only  be  seen  in  the  introverted  expression  of  the  eyes 
and  in  the  compression  of  the  lips.  At  length,  when  Mr. 
Wilde  appeared  somewhat  composed,  Edith  said, 

"Father,  I  would  like  to  retire  to  my  room.  May  I 
leave  you  for  this  evening  only  ?  To-morrow  I  shall  be 
able  to  resume  my  usual  duties,  and  be  henceforth  to  you, 
if  I  can,  a  comfort  and  a  consolation." 

"  Certainly,  Edith ;  go  and  rest.  You  will  need  it  more 
than  I.  God  bless  you,  my  darling !"  and  they  kissed  each 
other  a  sad  good-night. 

As  soon  as  Edith  reached  her  room,  she  threw  herself 
upon  her  knees  and  prayed  long  and  fervently.  She  asked 
God  to  give  her  fortitude  and  courage  to  do  her  daily  duty 
under  the  burden  of  her  two-fold  affliction.  She  arose  from 
her  knees,  cold,  desolate,  and  tearless.  She  had  known  for 
months — ever  since  his  departure  for  California — how  ten- 
derly, truly,  devotedly,  and  passionately  she  loved  George 
Bailey.  She  loved  him  with  a  singleness  and  strength 
such  as  strong  women  feel  once  and  forever.  She  had 
never  felt  the  slightest  semblance  of  love  for  any  one  of  the 
many  suitors  who  had  sought  her  hand.  But  for  him,  the 
son  of  the  noble  lady  who  had  died  in  her  arms — for  him, 
the  persecuted,  the  brave,  the  noble,  the  true,  the  heroic  and 
the  gentle — she  allowed  the  great  fountain  of  her  love  to 
flow  forth  in  unmeasured  currents.  When  she  gave  him 
her  heart  she  gave  it  without  stint  or  reservation ;  she  gave 
it  with  all  the  generosity  of  a  noble  nature.  As  he  was 
the  first  man  who  had  ever  aroused  in  her  the  tender  emo- 

10 


146  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

tion,  her  imagination  clothed  him  with  all  the  attributes  of 
a  demigod.  A  fearful  thing  is  this  first  and  only  love  of  a 
strong  woman.  If  Edith  Wilde  lived  after  such  a  bereave- 
ment, she  would  live  as  much  a  widow  as  though  the  mar- 
riage ceremony  had  been  performed  between  her  and  George 
Bailey.  She  felt  herself  his  through  all  the  countless  ages 
of  eternity ;  and  to  her  it  would  have  appeared  a  dreadful 
sin  ever  to  think  of  any  other  man  in  the  relation  of  lover 
or  husband.  Pale  and  motionless  as  a  marble  statue,  Edith 
sat  gazing  into  the  slowly -dying  embers  of  the  fire,  and 
thought  of  the  dear  young  brother,  whom  she  had  trained 
to  everything  pure  and  honorable,  and  of  her  lover,  with 
whom  she  had  never  exchanged  a  single  endearing  epithet. 
It  was  a  pitiful  sight  to  see  this  good,  strong  woman  thus 
stricken  down  by  so  fearful  a  blow. 

The  fire  in  the  grate  died  out ;  the  room  grew  cold,  but 
Edith  heeded  it  not.  For  hours  she  remained  in  the  same 
fixed  attitude,  more  like  a  corpse  than  a  living  person.  At 
last  a  slight  noise  seemed  to  startle  her,  and,  as  if  conscious 
for  the  first  time  of  her  terrible  bereavement,  she  wrung  her 
small  hands  in  agony,  and  then  threw  her  arms  upward  with 
a  gesture  of  intolerable  pain.  Then  she  arose  and  paced 
the  room  backward  and  forward,  as  if  seeking  relief  in  mo- 
tion ;  and  clinching  her  hands,  compressing  her  lips,  and  oc- 
casionally closing  her  eyes,  she  seemed  as  if  nerving  herself 
against  the  overthrow  of  reason.  She  had  no  likeness  of 
Bailey  except  the  ineffaceable  one  graven  on  her  heart ;  she 
had  not  even  a  line  of  his  handwriting;  no  visible  thing 
of  his  had  she :  she  would  have  given  her  whole  fortune  for 
a  small  lock  of  his  iron-gray  hair.  She  blamed  herself  for 
thinking  so  much  about  her  lover  and  so  little  about  her 
brother.  She  endeavored  to  drive  Bailey  out  of  her  mind, 
and  retain  Walter  there ;  but  in  vain  ;  for  the  greater  grief 
seemed  to  swallow  up  the  less ;  and  her  thoughts,  in  spite 
of  herself,  would  again  and  again  recur  to  the  man  whom 
she  loved  beyond  everything  on  earth. 

Again  she  sought  consolation  in  prayer,  and  forced  her- 
self to  dwell  on  the  darling  brother  whom  she  had  lost  for- 
ever; but  with  every  effort,  the  two  dear  forms  came  before 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  147 

her  imagination  intermingled,  and  sinking  down,  down  into 
the  hungry  ocean  intertwined  in  each  other's  arms.  Again 
she  arose  from  her  knees  and  paced  the  room  as  before. 
Not  a  tear  came  to  her  relief.  At  length,  from  sheer  ex- 
haustion, she  threw  herself  on  the  bed  and  lay  like  one  in 
a  trance.  But  "  Sleep,  the  twin  brother  of  Death,"  weighed 
not  upon  her  eyelids.  She  could  never  tell  afterward  how 
she  had  passed  that  first  night  of  supreme  misery.  Nature, 
gentle  and  kindly,  helps  the  miserable  more  than  they  can 
realize,  by  blunting  the  edge  of  agony  which,  if  prolonged, 
would  destroy  life  or  overthrow  reason.  While  reclining  on 
the  bed,  a  sort  of  stupor  took  possession  of  her  faculties ; 
and  in  this  condition  the  storm,  the  shipwreck  and  the  death 
of  Walter  and  Bailey  passed  before  her  like  the  phantasma- 
goria of  a  fearful  dream. 

The  pale  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  the  harbingers  of  a  new 
day,  struggled  through  the  blinds  and  curtains  of  her  cham- 
ber, and  still  Edith  lay  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  staring  at 
the  ceiling  with  a  stony  look.  In  another  hour  the  crim- 
son light  filled  the  room,  and  extinguished  the  artificial 
light  which  had  burnt  steadily  through  the  long  hours  of 
the  night.  Edith  arose  wearily,  like  one  who  rises  for  the 
first  time  from  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  staggered  to  the 
wash-stand,  and  bathed  her  hands  and  face  in  cold  water, 
inwardly  resolving  that  she  would  bear  her  cross  and  com- 
fort her  feeble  father.  She  had  now  the  appearance  of  one 
who  had  suddenly  grown  old.  She  was  determined  that 
no  human  being  should  ever  know  of  her  love  for  Bailey : 
that  secret  she  would  carry  with  her  to  the  grave.  At 
eight  o'clock  she  went  down  to  breakfast,  and  silently  kiss- 
ed her  father.  Neither  spoke ;  neither  could  eat  a  morsel ; 
each  feared  to  mention  the  subject  uppermost  in  the  minds 
of  both.  Here  we  shall  leave  them  to  bear  their  misery  as 
best  they  can,  and  ask  the  gentle  reader  to  accompany  us 
to  another  father  and  daughter,  whose  acquaintance  he  has 
already  made. 

The  beautiful  mansion  in  which  George  Bailey  had  paid 
his  addresses  to  Grace  Van  IIcss  had  long  ago  been  aban- 
doned. Father  and  daughter,  with  her  three  children,  oc- 


148  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

cupicd  a  humble  house  in  one  of  the  poorer  quarters  of  the 
city.  Jacob  Van  Hess  is  now  a  very  old  man,  broken  and 
sickly,  a  prey  to  remorse,  and  struggling  to  keep  his  com- 
mercial credit  above  water.  The  discovery  of  Myron  Finch's 
character,  so  soon  after  wedding  Grace  and  becoming  a  part- 
ner in  the  firm ;  the  fear  that  his  son-in-law  had  for  years 
inspired ;  the  wholesale  squandering  of  the  money  of  the 
firm  without  the  power  to  prevent  it;  the  evil  treatment 
which  he  knew  that  his  darling  Grace  had  received  from 
her  brute  of  a  husband  through  the  entire  period  of  her 
married  life ;  the  strong  suspicion,  recently  established  into 
a  terrible  truth,  that  Finch  had  cheated  Bailey  out  of  wife 
and  position,  and  had  used  him  (Van  Hess)  to  carry  out  his 
villanies ;  his  recent  absconding  with  nearly  all  the  remain- 
ing resources  of  the  firm — all  these  had  made  Jacob  Van 
Hess  prematurely  feeble  and  timid,  had  crushed  his  spirit 
within  him,  and  destroyed  that  energy  and  enterprise  which 
had  made  him  so  successful  a  merchant.  For  the  first  time 
in  twelve  years  Grace  and  her  father  feel  comparatively  hap- 
py. The  absolute  terror  which  Finch  had  inspired  is  lifted 
from  their  hearts,  but  the  debasing  effects  remain  and  will 
remain  forever.  Terror  is  the  most  morally  destructive  of 
all  the  emotions,  and  seems  to  have  a  paralyzing  influence 
both  on  the  body  and  the  mind.  The  old  man  is  a  coward 
now,  and  dreads  poverty  and  the  poor-house.  The  daugh- 
ter, who,  under  the  kindly  treatment  of  a  strong  man  like 
Bailey,  might  have  grown  into  a  strong  woman,  is  now 
mean-spirited,  selfish,  and  unreasonable.  Finch  had  the 
fatal  power  of  dragging  all  with  whom  he  came  in  contact 
down  to  his  own  very  low  level.  Ah !  if  Jenny  Edwards 
only  knew  it,  it  was  much  better  for  her  to  have  been  cast 
off  and  forgotten,  than  to  have  been  wedded,  like  Grace 
Van  Hess,  to  this  moral  monster. 

Through  her  father  Grace  had  learned  of  Bailey's  promo- 
tion and  voyage  to  San  Francisco,  and  had  kept  herself  ap- 
prised of  all  his  movements,  from  the  time  of  the  unsatis- 
factory interview  when  he  called  for  the  receipt,  up  to  the 
day  of  his  departure.  In  some  unaccountable  way  she  had 
learned,  in  addition,  that  Edith  Wilde,  whom  she  had  some- 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  149 

times  met  in  society,  had  been  very  kind  to  Bailey's  moth- 
er; had  procured  Bailey  himself  employment;  that  he  had 
gone  regularly  every  Sunday  to  Miss  Wilde's  church ;  and 
that  he  had  been  very  handsomely  treated  by  Mr.  Wilde. 
She  had  actually  discovered  Bailey's  lodgings  and  habits  of 
life.  The  love  -which  she  had  quietly  nursed  for  eleven 
years,  like  a  slow  fire  smothered  with  much  fuel,  had  burst 
out  into  a  strong,  fierce  flame  on  the  day  that  her  brutal 
husband  struck  her ;  and  the  cold,  hard  manner  of  George 
Bailey,  on  the  occasion  of  their  one  interview,  combined 
with  her  own  feminine  suspicion  or  instinct,  had  convinced 
her  that  his  heart  had  been  given  to  another  woman,  and 
that  woman  she  believed  to  be  Edith  Wilde.  She  was  now 
unreasonably  and  savagely  jealous.  This  jealousy  had  spur- 
red her  on  to  ascertain  all  George  Bailey's  movements,  and 
had  given  her  a  penetration  and  a  determination  of  pur- 
pose hitherto  foreign  to  her  character.  She  had  been  de- 
lighted to  hear  of  Myron  Finch's  absconding;  not  that  she 
feared  him,  or  could  ever  again  fear  him,  but  because  she 
was  rid  of  an  obstacle  that  stood  between  her  and  the  man 
she  loved.  Even  if  her  husband  should  return,  he  could  be 
arrested  and  imprisoned ;  and  she  had  resolved,  at  any  rate, 
to  obtain  a  divorce.  Finch's  selfish  brutality,  as  before 
stated,  had  had  its  effect  on  Grace's  character.  She  saw  no 
wrong  in  loving  Bailey,  or  in  hating  Edith  WTilde.  She 
dreamed  dreams  and  saw  visions;  and  in  the  blindness  of 
her  passion  she  built  airy  habitations,  in  which  she  placed 
herself  as  the  wife  of  the  man  whom  she  had  abandoned 
to  his  fate.  She  would  say  to  herself,  in  her  solitary  mus- 
ings, "  Who  knows  but  his  old  love  will  reappear  ?  If  he 
saw  me  often  enough,  his  passion  would  revive.  But  for 
this  Edith  Wilde — "  Then  a  dark  scowl  would  overspread 
her  face.  She  had  been  starved  and  stinted  so  long  during 
her  life  with  Finch,  that  her  heart  fairly  ached  for  such 
love  as  she  knew  Bailey  was  capable  of  feeling.  She  would 
have  freely  risked  her  immortal  soul  to  bask  one  hour  in 
the  sunshine  of  the  love  which  she  had  deliberately  cast 
away  twelve  years  ago. 

The  same  day,  and  at  about  the  same  hour  that  Mr.  Wilde 


150  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

had  communicated  to  Edith  the  loss  of  the  ship  Sebastian 
Cabot,  Mr.  Van  Hess  was  reading  the  Evening  Post,  and 
Grace  was  reading  a  light  novel,  translated  from  the  French. 
The  old  gentleman  started  and  exclaimed, 

"  Eh !  what  is  this  ?  George  Bailey  and  Walter  "Wilde 
among  the  list  of  passengers !" 

"What  do  you  mean,  father  ?"  said  Grace,  in  a  startled 
tone.  "What  passengers?  "What  ship  are  you  talking 
about  ?" 

"  The  ship  Sebastian  Cabot,  which  foundered  at  sea  and 
all  hands  lost,  including  George  Bailey  and  Walter  Wilde. 
Here  is  a  full  account  in  the  Evening  Post."11  Mr.  Van  Hess, 
however,  did  not  read  the  article  aloud,  as  he  had  intended ; 
for,  happening  to  turn  his  head,  he  saw  that  Grace  had  faint- 
ed, lie  rung  for  assistance ;  and  by  a  liberal  use  of  cold 
water  and  considerable  hand-chafing  she  was  quickly  restored 
to  consciousness.  When  strong  enough  to  speak,  and  when 
the  servant  had  left  the  room,  she  said, 

"  Father,  it  was  unkind  of  you  to  be  so  abrupt.  You 
startled  me  dreadfully,  and  you  know  that  my  nerves  are 
not  strong.  Show  me  that  paper." 

Grace  read  the  fatal  article  with  compressed  lips,  and  a 
face  the  color  of  the  dead.  When  she  had  finished  she 
said,  "  I  won't  believe  it !  There  are  small  boats,  and  rafts, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Men  are  picked  up  at  sea.  I 
won't  believe  that  George  Bailey  is  drowned — I  won't !" 

"  Very  true,  Grace,  my  dear ;  they  may  have  been  picked 
up  and  they  may  not;  more  likely  not.  I  am  glad  I  asked 
and  received  his  forgiveness ;  for  he  was  a  good  lad,  and 
would  have  made  you  an  excellent  husband  instead  of  that 
—Finch." 

"  Yes,"  said  Grace ;  "  and  whom  am  I  to  thank  that  my 
husband  was  Finch  ? — Keep  quiet,  father,  keep  quiet !  Bai- 
lev,  I  repeat,  is  not  drowned." 

u  My  dear,  I  did  all  for  the  best." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know  you  did.  Good -night,  father,  I  ara 
tired ;"  and  Grace  Finch  walked  out  of  the  room  for  the 
purpose  of  escaping  the  garrulity  of  the  feeble  old  man, 
for  whom  she  had  little  respect. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  151 

She,  too,  sat  and  pondered ;  and  she,  too,  strode  back  and 
forth  like  a  man ;  and  she,  too,  threw  herself  on  her  bed 
and  groaned ;  but  there  was  this  difference  between  Edith 
Wilde  and  her — Grace  never  once  prayed,  and  never  once 
thought  of  anything  but  her  own  selfish  sorrow.  At  break- 
fast next  morning  word  came  to  her  father  that  she  had  a 
headache  and  could  not  leave  her  room.  During  the  after- 
noon she  dressed  and  went  out.  She  wandered  here  and 
there  without  aim  or  purpose.  She  bought  an  evening  paper 
and  scanned  it  carefully  for  news  of  the  lost  ship,  but  in  vain. 
She  thought  that  perhaps  the  Wildes  might  have  some  in- 
formation ;  but  what  excuse  could  she  make  for  calling  at 
such  a  time  ?  Could  she  invent  something  ?  No,  she  could 
think  of  nothing  which  was  reasonable.  At  last  a  thought 
struck  her  —  the  receipt.  Bailey  was  in  Wilde's  employ. 
Mrs.  Bailey  had  lost  the  receipt — that  is,  if  she  ever  received 
one.  She  need  say  nothing  of  Bailey's  having  received  a 
receipt  sometime  before  his  departure  for  California.  She 
now  hurried  home  in  time  to  meet  her  father  at  dinner. 

"  Father,  don't  you  think  that  Mr.  Wilde  should  have  Mr. 
Bailey's  receipt — that  is,  the  receipt  which  you  gave  him 
before  he  went  to  San  Francisco  ?" 

"No,  I  think  not.  That  would  be  a  rather  strange  pro- 
ceeding," said  Mr.  Van  Hess. 

"  But,"  said  Grace,  "  the  whole  proceeding  was  very 
strange.  Mr.  Bailey  owed  Mr.  Wilde  the  money  which  the 
forged  check  paid  to  Mr.  Wilde.  Mrs.  Bailey  paid  this  debt 
with  honest  money,  and  left  no  receipt  for  her  son.  He  was 
so  anxious  about  it,  doubtless  for  the  purpose  of  showing 
it  to  Mr.  Wilde,  that  he  wrote  to  you  about  it.  Now,  it  is 
more  than  likely  that  this  receipt  was  lost  when  the  ship 
went  down.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  an  act  of  gener- 
osity to  hand  Mr.  Wilde  a  receipt  this  evening,  and  to  tell 
him  your  fearful  mistake  ?" 

"  Well,  Grace,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  "  it  is  not  very 
business-like  to  give  a  second  receipt  in  this  way ;  but,  as 
you  remark,  it  would  be  only  just  to  tell  Mr.  Wilde  that  I 
believe  now  that  we  sent  an  innocent  man  to  State-prison." 

Whether  it  was  business  or  sentiment  mattered  little  to 


152  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Grace  Finch,  as  long  as  she  accomplished  her  purpose.  She 
was  anxious  for  news,  and  she  was  morbidly  curious  to  see 
if  Edith  Wilde  suffered  very  much  in  consequence  of  her 
twofold  loss.  The  passion  of  love  in  low  minds  is  a  ready 
condoner  of  crime,  and  a  logical  justificr  of  every  sin  com- 
mitted in  its  own  behalf.  Her  causeless  hatred  of  Edith  was 
a  sin,  but  Mrs.  Finch  saw  it  not ;  her  love  for  Bailey  was  a 
crime  against  her  womanhood,  but  she  never  realized  it. 

The  giving  of  the  receipt  and  the  conversation  about  the 
old  forgery  naturally  led  to  the  very  thing  which  Grace  had 
desired — namely,  a  private  interview  with  Edith.  These 
two  women  presented  a  singular  contrast  as  they  sat  facing 
each  other  on  the  sofa.  Thought,  study,  and  high  moral 
principle  had  chiselled  the  features  of  Edith  Wilde  into  a 
beauty  and  a  purity  surpassing  the  best  models  of  Grecian 
art :  strength,  and  firmness,  and  intellectual  power  shone  in 
the  steady  glance  of  her  clear  gray  eye  ;  and  over  and  above 
all  was  that  expression  of  goodness  which  had  won  the  heart 
of  Bailey  at  their  first  interview.  Self-indulgence  and  ab- 
ject fear  had  left  their  impress  so  distinctly  on  the  former 
girlish  beauty  of  Grace  Finch,  that  one  was  unconsciously 
reminded  of  a  beautiful  peach  on  which  the  damp  of  a  cel- 
lar has  left  the  stain  of  mildew. 

"  You  must  excuse  us,  Miss  Wilde,"  said  Grace,  "  but  we 
could  not  rest  until  Mr.  Wilde  had  the  assurance  that  Mr. 
Bailey  had  been  a  grossly-wronged  man.  We  have  had  the 
proof  of  it,  and  desired  to  communicate  this  proof  to  all  his 
friends.  Now  that,  perhaps,  he  is  no  more  " — and  at  this 
point  Grace  searched  Edith's  face  keenly,  but  saw  no  sign 
of  emotion — "  now  that  he  is  no  more,  we  wished  those  who 
trusted  him  to  know  that  he  was  deserving  of  their  confi- 
dence and  esteem." 

Edith  Wilde  looked  at  Grace  Finch  with  a  frigid,  dis- 
tant, stony  expression  of  face.  At  first  she  had  been  sim- 
ply amazed  that  one  calling  herself  a  lady  should  intrude 
upon  a  mere  acquaintance  at  such  a  time.  Her  amazement 
changed  to  contempt,  and  this  contempt  gradually  grew 
into  a  feeling  of  dislike.  She  thought  to  herself,  "  So  this 
is  the  woman  who  was  engaged  to  George  Bailey ;  and  per- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  153 

haps  she  loves  him  still."  Like  all  who  love  deeply  and 
truly,  she  fancied  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  any  wom- 
an to  be  long  in  Bailey's  society  without  loving  him.  As 
these  thoughts  went  through  the  mind  of  Edith,  she  had 
not  lost  one  syllable  of  what  Mrs.  Finch  had  said. 

"  Madam,"  said  Edith,  in  cold,  measured  accents,  "  Mr. 
Grady  has  told  us  all ;  but  his  statement  of  the  gross 
wrong,  of  the  horrible  crime  committed  against  Mr.  Bailey, 
was  not  necessary.  My  father  believed  him  innocent,  and 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  his  mother  very  intimately. 
Had  I  not  known  his  excellent  mother,  and  through  her  of 
her  son's  purity  and  integrity,  I  would  never  have  urged  my 
father  to  employ  him  in  an  important  position." 

"  You  were  intimate,  then,  with  his  mother?" 

"  Very,"  replied  Edith  ;  "  she  was  my  dearest  friend." 

It  required  all  Mrs.  Grace  Finch's  self-control  to  keep 
down  the  "  green-eyed  monster." 

"I  —  I — came  to  give  the  proofs  of  Mr.  Bailey's  inno- 
cence; or  —  or,  I  mean  my  father  came  for  that  purpose; 
but — I — I  see  it  is  not  necessary.  Pardon  me,  but  the  sud- 
denness of  the  news  rather  upset  me.  You — ah — you  may 
have  heard  that  George  Bailey  and  I  were — ha !  ha !"  (the 
slight  laugh  was  hysterical),  "were  engaged  once,  and  that 
it — it  was  broken  off  about  the  time  of  the  forged  check." 
This  little  speech,  broken  with  suppressed  emotion,  left  its 
sting  in  the  heart  of  Edith,  as  Grace  intended ;  but  anx- 
ious now  to  change  the  line  of  conversation,  she  continued, 
"  Miss  Wilde,  has  your  father  received  any  additional  news  ? 
Has  he  any  hope  ?" 

"  No,  Mrs.  Finch ;  no  news,  and  but  little  hope,"  replied 
Edith,  in  a  frigid  tone. 

The  two  women  sat  silent,  not  knowing  what  to  say  to 
each  other ;  and  though  they  had  been  accustomed  all  their 
lives  to  mingle  in  the  best  society,  and  to  feel  perfectly  at 
ease,  each  felt  embarrassed,  for  each  became  conscious  that 
the  other  loved  the  same  man.  They  read  each  other's 
hearts  like  open  books.  Men,  under  similar  circumstances, 
could  never  have  made  the  discovery  of  rivalship.  Let  two 
women,  even  of  the  ignorant  class,  talk  five  minutes  togeth- 


154  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

cr  about  the  man  beloved  by  both,  and  by  some  subtle  free- 
masonry each  will  know  the  other's  feelings  just  as  thor- 
oughly as  though  they  had  proclaimed  their  love  from  the 
house-top. 

\Vhile  silently  facing  each  other  on  the  sofa,  Edith  won- 
dered that  the  weak,  coarse  woman  who  had  abandoned 
Bailey  and  married  his  rival,  could  have  the  audacity  to 
talk  to  her  in  such  a  way;  and  Grace  thought  it  very 
strange  if  George  Bailey  could  think  anything  of  this  pale- 
faced,  queer-looking  girl,  who  was  only  a  sort  of  intellectual 
blue-stocking.  Mrs.  Myron  Finch  had  great  faith  in  her 
own  faded  charms  —  that  is,  after  they  had  undergone  a 
slight  burnishing.  She  believed  in  small  hands,  small  feet, 
small  mouth,  small  head,  and  small  waist;  in  fact,  small- 
ness  constituted  seven-eighths  of  what  she  considered  beau- 
ty, and  the  other  eighth  was  made  up  of  length  without 
breadth  or  thickness — length  of  neck,  of  limb,  of  hair,  with 
here  and  there  a  dash  of  red  to  relieve  the  general  dead 
level  of  insipidity.  As  Edith  Wilde  had  none  of  these 
qualifications,  but  had,  on  the  contrary,  a  good-sized  head, 
containing  at  least  forty-eight  ounces  of  firm  brain,  and  a 
high,  broad  forehead,  below  which  beamed  a  pair  of  large 
gray  eyes,  and  below  these  again  a  nose  indicative  of 
strength,  and  a  mouth  formed  to  say  something  more  than 
"  prunes  and  prisms,"  Mrs.  Finch  began  to  feel  a  sort  of 
contempt  for  the  personal  appearance  of  her  rival,  and  to 
think  that,  after  all,  she  had  not  much  to  fear  from  her 
powers  of  fascination.  It  had  never  once  entered  the  mind 
of  Mrs.  Finch  that  a  man  could  possibly  love  a  woman  for 
anything  but  mere  physical  beauty.  And  yet  the  small, 
faded,  burnished  charms  of  Grace  Finch  were  to  the  char- 
acteristic, intellectual  beauty  of  Edith  Wilde,  what  the  fe- 
male show-figure  in  a  milliner's  window  is  to  the  finished 
Greek  statue  from  the  hand  of  Praxiteles. 

Thus  the  two  women  sat  for  a  few  minutes  unconscious  of 
the  lapse  of  time,  for  each  was  busy  with  her  own  thoughts. 
At  length  Mrs.  Finch  arose,  and  again  apologizing  for  her 
unseasonable  visit,  and  requesting  Miss  Wilde  to  send  her 
word  in  case  she  received  anv  tidings  of  her  brother  and  Mr. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  155 

Bailey,  took  her  departure,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  aged 
father. 

If  ever  a  feeling  of  dislike,  not  to  give  it  a  harsher  name, 
had  found  a  home  in  the  heart  of  the  good  and  gentle  Edith 
Wilde,  it  found  it  that  evening  for  the  coarse,  selfish,  and 
feeble  Mrs.  Myron  Finch. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

upon  the  watery  plain 


The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed  ;  nor  doth  remain 

A  shadow  of  man's  ravage  save  his  own, 

When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 

He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 

Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown." 

BYRON. 
"  Water,  water  everywhere, 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink." — COLERIDGE. 

THE  good  ship  Sebastian  Cabot  was  borne  along  toward 
the  equator  by  a  fair  north-west  wind  over  an  ocean  as 
smooth  as  an  Italian  lake.  When  crossing  the  "line"  the 
wind  died  away,  and  baffling  calms  prevailed  for  more  than 
a  week.  Finally,  a  fresh  breeze  arose  in  the  west,  and  the 
stout  ship,  under  a  full  press  of  canvas,  bore  away  to  the 
south  of  Cape  Horn ;  and  here  she  was  struck  by  a  south- 
east gale,  accompanied  by  a  snow-storm  so  blinding  that 
the  man  at  the  wheel  could  scarcely  see  the  length  of  the 
quarter-deck.  As  the  gale  increased  and  grew  into  a  raging 
tempest,  the  officers  and  sailors  suffered  intensely  from  the 
cold  ;  and,  to  add  to  their  misery,  the  ropes,  spars,  and  rig- 
ging were  covered  with  a  thick  coating  of  ice.  Many  of 
the  men  had  become  badly  frost-bitten.  The  foretop-sail 
had  been  torn  in  fragments  from  the  yards;  and  the  ship 
was  plunging  before  the  wind  under  bare  poles.  Huge  seas 
were  shipped,  and  washed  the  deck  from  stem  to  stern  ;  and 
the  strong  ship  shivered  and  shook  like  a  thing  of  life  in 
the  grasp  of  her  relentless  enemy.  The  bulwarks  were 


156  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

swept  away,  and  all  the  small  boats,  save  one,  smashed  to 
pieces.  The  carpenter  reported  a  leak  ;  and  all  hands,  at 
the  imminent  risk  of  being  swept  overboard,  were  ordered 
to  the  pumps.  To  ease  the  ship,  now  laboring  heavily  in 
the  trough  of  the  sea,  the  captain  commanded  the  fore  and 
main  masts  to  be  cut  away.  Day  and  night,  after  the  tem- 
pest had  died  down,  officers  and  men,  with  Bailey,  "Wilde, 
and  the  other  passengers  included,  took  turns  in  pumping 
out  the  water,  which  was  fast  gaining  on  them  in  spite  of 
all  their  efforts.  The  carpenter  had  made  several  vain  at- 
tempts, by  means  of  canvas,  to  stop  the  leak.  As  the  ship 
was  in  ballast,  the  sand  choked  the  pumps,  and  the  sailors 
were  ready  to  give  up  in  despair.  The  ship  Sebastian  Ca- 
bot was  slowly  but  surely  sinking.  It  was  finally  agreed 
that  one  portion  of  the  crew  and  passengers  should  con- 
struct a  raft,  and  the  other  portion  take  to  the  only  remain- 
ing small  boat.  Including  Bailey,  Wilde,  and  four  other 
passengers,  there  were  twenty -nine  souls  on  board,  who 
were  distributed  as  follows :  the  captain,  the  third  mate, 
the  four  passengers,  the  carpenter,  and  six  sailors  were  as- 
signed to  the  boat ;  and  the  first  and  second  officers,  Bai- 
ley, Wilde,  and  the  remainder  of  the  crew  to  the  raft. 
They  took  with  them  navigating  instruments,  and  as  much 
water  and  provisions  as  they  could  with  safety  carry.  By 
observation  they  found  themselves  about  eight  hundred 
miles  south-west  of  Chili.  The  boat  and  the  raft  had  each 
a  mast  and  a  small  sail ;  and  four  men  in  turn  were  kept  at 
the  oars.  For  two  days,  owing  to  the  almost  dead  calm 
that  succeeded  the  late  storm,  they  kept  together  within 
speaking  distance;  but  on  the  third  night,  a  breeze  having 
sprung  up,  the  boat  sailed  away,  and  was  never  afterward 
heard  of.  Being  overloaded  at  the  start,  she  was  evidently 
swamped  in  one  of  the  minor  gales  that  followed  the  first 
calm.  The  sufferings  of  the  men  on  the  raft  were  simply 
intolerable.  Wearied,  with  rowing  and  want  of  sleep,  and 
constantly  in  danger  of  being  washed  away  by  the  seas  that 
swept  over  them,  death  seemed  to  most  of  them  a  happy 
release.  As  they  moved  slowly  toward  the  north-east  the 
weather  became  very  warm,  especially  at  noon,  and  a  raging 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  157 

tliirst  was  added  to  their  other  miseries.  During  the  sev- 
enth night  the  second  mate  had  either  fallen  or  thrown 
himself  into  the  sea ;  for  in  the  morning  he  was  missing, 
and  no  one  knew  how  or  when  he  had  disappeared.  The 
first  mate  found  it  extremely  difficult  to  maintain  discipline 
among  the  sailors,  the  majority  of  whom  were  Spaniards 
and  Portuguese.  On  the  fourth  day  they  had  abandoned 
rowing,  and  now  depended  solely  upon  their  small  sail, 
which  did  not  seem  to  carry  them  forward  more  than  five 
or  six  miles  a  day.  In  fact,  they  were  at  the  mercy  of  the 
winds;  and  unless  they  were  picked  up  by  some  ship  which 
had  been  driven  out  of  her  course  like  themselves,  their 
chance  of  being  saved  was  exceedingly  slight.  The  sailors 
demanded  a  larger  allowance  of  water,  which  the  first  offi- 
cer refused ;  and  this  refusal  would  have  caused  a  mutiny 
but  for  the  presence  of  mind  of  Bailey,  who  drew  out  his 
revolver,  and,  standing  in  front  of  the  men,  said  he  would 
shoot  the  first  man  who  disobeyed  the  orders  which  were 
given  for  the  good  of  all.  Bailey,  Wilde,  the  mate,  and  the 
steward  kept  together  at  one  end  of  the  raft,  in  charge  of 
the  provisions,  which  were  dealt  out  fairly  and  equitably  to 
all ;  and  the  sullen  sailors  remained  at  the  other  end,  wait- 
ing for  the  opportunity  to  seize  and  devour  the  whole 
stock. 

Bailey's  great  aim  was  to  preserve  tlie  life  of  Walter 
Wilde,  whose  constitution,  at  the  best,  was  none  of  the 
strongest.  He  placed  Walter  near  himself,  compelled  him 
to  sleep  with  his  head  pillowed  on  his  shoulder,  gave  him 
slyly  more  than  half  his  allowance  of  bread-and-water,  and 
forced  him,  during  the  scorching  calms,  to  wash  his  body 
several  times  a  day  with  the  salt-water,  warning  him  at  the 
same  time  against  allowing  a  single  drop  to  pass  his  lips. 
Bailey  washed  his  own  body  repeatedly,  and  allowed  his 
inner  clothing  to  remain  Avet,  knowing  that  through  the 
pores  he  would  receive  considerable  water  from  which  the 
salt  would  be  eliminated  and  remain  on  his  skin  in  crystals. 
He  made  young  Wilde  take  his  allowance  of  water  in  tea- 
spoonfuls  ;  and  it  was  while  he  slept  that  Bailey  poured  the 
greater  portion  of  his  own  allowance  into  Walter's  cup. 


158  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Bailey's  great  fear  was  that  his  friend  would  succumb  and 
die.  How  then,  if  he  survived  himself,  could  he  face  Edith, 
if  the  brother  whom  he  had  promised  to  preserve  at  the  risk 
of  his  own  life  were  dead  ?  Walter  clung  to  George  like  a 
child  to  its  mother,  and  was  treated  with  all  the  self-deny- 
ing devotion  which  a  mother  would  exhibit  under  similar 
circumstances.  It  was  in  this  day  of  sore  trial  and  suffer- 
ing that  Bailey's  great  qualities  came  to  the  surface.  He 
was  no  stranger  to  privation ;  for  he  had  spent  sixty  days 
in  a  dark  cell  in  midwinter  on  bread-and-water.  For  ten 
years  he  had  worked  in  a  stone-quarry  and  slept  on  a  hard 
cot,  had  eaten  the  coarsest  fare,  and  worn  the  thinnest 
clothing.  His  enemies  had  taught  him  patience  and  forti- 
tude, and  his  great  physical  strength  and  superior  power  of 
mind  had  made  him  a  natural  ruler  of  men.  These  quali- 
ties caused  him  to  live  where  ninety-nine  out  of  every  hun- 
dred would  have  died,  and  enabled  him  quietly  to  support 
the  power  of  the  mate  and  quell  the  dangerous  attempt  at 
mutiny. 

One  after  another  the  sailors  died,  raving  maniacs,  or,  in 
the  madness  caused  by  trying  to  quench  their  thirst  with 
salt-water,  jumped  wildly  into  the  sea  and  were  drowned. 
The  carpenter  had  already  died,  and  the  first-mate  was  ex- 
tremely low  from  exhaustion.  The  water  was  consumed ; 
and  the  only  sustenance  left  was  a  little  bread,  badly  in- 
jured, and  unfit  for  human  food.  Bailey  became  the  very 
life  of  the  party ;  he  managed  to  rig  up  some  fishing-tackle 
with  which  he  caught  one  or  two  fish ;  by  patiently  waiting 
and  watching,  he  shot  with  his  pistol  a  sea-bird,  and,  as  the 
raft  could  not  be  steered,  he  was  obliged  to  swim  for  it. 
This  fresh  food  he  divided  equally  among  the  survivors. 
One  morning  the  mate  and  two  more  of  the  sailors  were 
missing.  Owing  to  a  slight  swell  of  the  ocean,  it  was  sup- 
posed that  in  their  weak  condition  they  had  rolled  off  the 
raft  and  been  drowned.  But  four  sailors,  with  Bailey  and 
"\Vilde,  remained  of  all  who  had  sought  to  save  their  lives 
on  their  frail  vessel.  Day  after  day  they  eagerly  scanned 
the  horizon  in  search  of  a  passing  ship,  but  no  sail  ever 
gladdened  their  sight ;  and  as  the  first  rays  of  daylight 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  15'J 

dawned,  every  eye  was  turned  in  all  directions,  and  the 
look  of  bitter  disappointment  in  every  face  was  pitiful  to 
behold. 

Walter  Wilde  was  rapidly  sinking,  and  his  mind  at  in- 
tervals began  to  wander.  The  young  man's  condition  filled 
Bailey  with  a  nameless  terror ;  for  he  was,  on  Edith's  ac- 
count, determined  to  save  his  life  at  the  expense  of  his 
own.  He  was  resolved  not  to  survive  him.  A  new  hor- 
ror was  added  to  his  other  miseries.  He  found  the  four 
surviving  sailors  in  frequent  whispered  consultations,  and 
he  clearly  saw  the  wolfish  glare  of  famine  in  their  eyes. 
As  young  AVilcle  was  evidently  dying,  Bailey  read  their 
thoughts,  and  became  convinced  that  they  wished  to  kill 
him  in  order  to  drink  his  blood  and  eat  his  flesh !  While 
Walter  dozed  Bailey  fished ;  and  this  day,  while  stealthily 
watching  the  sailors,  he  was  more  than  usually  successful. 
Notwithstanding  the  evident  conspiracy  to  murder  his 
friend,  he  made  the  customary  equal  division,  resolved  to 
give  them  no  cause  for  an  attack. 

As  the  dusk  of  evening  drew  on,  Bailey,  who  could  see 
pretty  well  in  the  dark  (another  qualification  for  which  he 
was  indebted  to  his  prison  life),  perceived  the  demon  of 
blood-thirstiness  gleaming  in  their  eyes,  and  he  trembled 
from  head  to  foot  with  a  fear  which  almost  paralyzed  him. 
He  dared  not  apprise  Walter  of  his  danger.  He  placed 
him  behind  him,  with  his  own  body  between  him  and  the 
vampires  who  sought  his  blood.  He  held  his  pistol  ready 
cocked  to  shoot  the  first  man  who  moved  toward  their  part 
of  the  raft,  and  endeavored  with  all  his  might  to  keep  awake 
and  to  beat  off  the  drowsiness  which  oppressed  him. 

George  Bailey  had  suffered  enough  in  his  dark,  solitary 
cell ;  he  had  felt  the  pangs  of  hunger  before  in  the  streets 
of  his  native  city ;  but  all  his  sufferings  combined  did  not 
equal  the  horrible  misery  of  his  mind  at  this  moment.  His 
soul  revolted  and  his  heart  sickened  at  the  bare  contempla- 
tion of  the  deed  which  the  four  starving  demons  meditated. 

About  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  strongest  of  the 
sailors  commenced  to  creep  very  slowly  toward  Bailey  and 
his  friend ;  but  Bailey  was  on  the  watch,  and  having  seen 


1GO  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

the  man  run  a  large  knife  up  his  sleeve — at  least  he  con- 
cluded it  was  a  knife — was  thoroughly  prepared  to  meet 
him,  and  waited  until  he  had  approached  within  three  feet 
of  him.  He  then  exclaimed,  "  Back  to  your  part  of  the 
raft,  or  I'll  shoot  you  on  the  spot !"  and  the  baffled  vam- 
pire slunk  to  his  place  with  a  low  howl  of  rage.  Bailey 
then  arose,  and  drawing  a  rope  across  the  raft,  said,  "  The 
first  man  who  crosses  this  line  I  shall  kill !"  He  retired  to 
his  place  beside  Walter,  who  asked  him  what  was  the  mat- 
ter ;  but  Bailey  gave  his  friend  an  evasive  answer. 

All  night  long  George  Bailey  kept  himself  awake  by  a 
superhuman  effort  of  the  will.  Walter  slept,  leaning  his 
head  on  Bailey's  shoulder — slept  fitfully,  uneasily,  and  toss- 
ed and  tumbled  in  a  state  of  half  delirium.  Bailey  held 
his  pistol  in  his  right  hand  while  the  fingers  of  his  left  ran 
through  the  dark  locks  of  the  brother  of  his  darling  Edith ; 
and  he  felt  a  strange  pleasure,  amidst  all  the  horror  of  his 
position,  in  being  in  such  close  contact  with  one  who  so 
closely  resembled  his  beautiful  idol.  At  one  time  during 
this  night — this  horrible  night — when  Bailey  felt  his  eye- 
lids becoming  heavy,  the  desperate  thought  entered  his 
mind  of  quietly  slipping  with  his  young  friend  into  the 
ocean,  and  of  gently  ending  their  miseries  in  each  other's 
arms !  Should  he  become  so  weak  as  to  be  unable  to  de- 
fend Walter,  he  well  knew  the  dreadful  death  which  was 
in  store  for  them  both.  The  very  terror  which  his  position 
inspired  seemed  to  give  Bailey  something  more  than  mortal 
endurance. 

Daylight  at  last  dawned,  and  Bailey  commenced  fishing, 
the  line  in  one  hand  and  the  pistol  in  the  other,  and  his  eye 
never  for  a  moment  turned  away  from  the  four  blood-hounds 
lounging  not  four  yards  off.  He  caught  a  single  fish,  after 
two  hours'  toil.  lie  fired  his  pistol  into  a  piece  of  dried 
canvas,  and  with  little  pieces  of  wood  chipped  from  the  raft 
he  made  a  small  fire  and  cooked  it.  He  gave  Walter  two- 
thirds  and  ate  the  other  third  himself.  He  would  not 
divide  any  longer  with  the  assassins,  for  he  clearly  per- 
ceived that  it  was  now  a  life -and -death  struggle  between 
them. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  161 

The  sailor  "who  had  tried  to  make  the  assault  on  Wal- 
ter the  evening  before,  and  whom  Bailey  had  driven 
back  at  the  point  of  his  pistol,  now  arose,  and  in  broken 
English  demanded  that  they  should  all  cast  lots ;  for  it  was 
better  that  one  should  be  killed  than  that  all  should  die  of 
hunger  and  thirst.  Bailey  quietly  told  him  that  he  would 
permit  no  cannibalism  while  he  had  a  single  bullet  left  in 
his  pistol. 

As  evening  was  coming  on  again,  all  Bailey's  terror  re- 
turned. While  it  was  yet  daylight  he  asked  Walter  if  he 
was  sure  he  could  keep  awake,  and  watch  for  one  hour 
while  he  slept.  Walter  thought  that  he  could.  "  Remem- 
ber," said  Bailey,  "  if  you  feel  yourself  becoming  drowsy, 
wake  me  instantly :  don't  hesitate  one  moment." 

Bailey  had  slept  for  fully  two  hours,  while  Walter  was 
keeping  watch.  It  was  now  nearly  dark,  and,  as  the  latter 
was  looking  indolently  at  the  four  men  on  the  after-part  of 
the  raft,  he  saw  one  of  them  seize  a  knife,  and  begin  to 
creep  slowly  and  stealthily  toward  them.  Walter  pinched 
Bailey  on  the  arm  to  awake  him.  In  one  instant — quicker 
than  we  can  express  it — George  Bailey  and  the  assassin 
were  on  their  feet,  the  one  with  his  pistol,  the  other  with 
his  knife.  The  assassin  made  a  plunge  forward  to  strike 
the  fatal  blow ;  but,  ere  he  had  accomplished  half  the  dis- 
tance, Bailey's  pistol -bullet  went  clear  through  his  brain, 
and  the  wretch  lay  dead  at  his  feet.  Bailey  hurled  the 
corpse  into  the  sea,  for  fear  his  three  comrades  might  de- 
vour his  flesh.  He  warned  them  that  on  the  slightest 
movement  toward  the  dividing-line  he  would  fire  and  kill 
them  in  succession.  "  Now,  dear  Walter,  you  may  sleep 
in  peace;  I  can  watch  for  twenty -four  hours  if  neces- 
sary." 

Another  day  dawned.  One  of  the  sailors  stood  bolt-up- 
right, scanned  the  horizon,  and  seeing  no  ship  in  sight, 
bounded  far  from  the  raft  and  sunk  into  the  ocean.  He 
feared  the  very  fate  that  he  had  intended  for  Walter.  An- 
other sailor  died  about  noon ;  and  the  last  of  them  rolled 
into  the  ocean,  being  so  weak  that  he  could  not  help  him- 
self. Bailey  rushed  to  save  him,  but  too  late. 

11 


162  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

They  were  all  alone  on  the  great  deep.  If  death  now 
came,  it  would  be,  at  least,  a  decent  death,  since  the  fear  of 
cannibalism  was  gone.  The  weather  was  exceedingly  fine, 
and  as  they  drifted  toward  the  north  the  atmosphere  be- 
came cooler.  The  hungry  ocean,  like  a  huge  monster,  lay 
everywhere  around  them,  ready  to  devour  them  ;  with  no 
food  to  eat  nor  water  to  drink,  covered  with  sores,  and 
worn  to  mere  skeletons,  the  two  survivors  almost  envied 
the  lot  of  those  whom  the  greedy  ocean  had  already  swal- 
lowed up.  Another  day  came,  and  not  a  sail  in  sight. 
Bailey  had  to  exert  every  faculty  of  mind  and  will  to  make 
the  effort  to  fish,  but  he  caught  nothing. 

As  day  changed  to  night,  and  as  there  was  a  light  swell, 
which  caused  the  raft  to  roll,  Bailey  was  afraid  to  sleep,  for 
fear  either  or  both  might  fall  off  and  be  drowned.  He 
caused  Walter  to  rest  with  his  arm  around  the  mast;  and 
he  so  arranged  his  own  body  and  limbs  on  the  opposite 
side,  and  so  held  Walter's  hand,  that  it  would  have  been 
almost  impossible  for  either  to  roll  into  the  sea  without 
awakening  the  other.  The  sleep  of  both  was  light  and  fit- 
ful, and  each  had  annoying  dreams  of  eating  human  flesh 
and  drinking  human  blood.  To  their  utter  astonishment 
and  delight,  they  were  awaked  from  their  uneasy  slumbers 
by  feeling  large  drops  of  rain  falling  on  their  faces.  Bless- 
ed rain  !  It  perfectly  poured  in  torrents.  The  young  men 
opened  their  mouths,  took  off  their  outer  clothing,  now 
white  with  salt,  and  allowed  their  under -clothing  to  be 
completely  saturated  with  fresh-water.  They  filled  the  tin 
cups  and  the  cask,  and  they  washed  their  tattered  garments 
with  the  soft  rain.  Refreshed  and  invigorated,  Bailey  com- 
menced to  fish ;  and  as  fortune,  like  misfortune,  never  comes 
alone,  he  caught  a  larger  fish  than  any  that  had  hitherto 
rewarded  his  labors.  This,  with  the  fresh -water  in  abun- 
dance, furnished  the  best  meal  which  they  had  eaten  in 
several  weeks.  That  afternoon,  evening,  and  night,  the  two 
young  men  slept  a  deep,  heavy,  refreshing  sleep.  Toward 
morning,  as  their  sleep  became  lighter,  each  dreamed  of 
delicious  repasts,  iced  wines,  and  cooling  fountains.  But 
the  little  strength  remaining  was  fast  giving  out ;  and  each 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  163 

knew  that  unless  picked  up  in  a  day  or  two  they  must  in- 
evitably die  of  starvation.  Bailey  fished  all  day  but  caught 
nothing ;  he  fired  his  pistol  at  a  sea-bird  and  missed  it ;  and 
both,  making  their  supper  on  a  draught  of  rain-water,  lay 
down  in  each  other's  arms,  for  the  sea  was  now  smooth 
again,  and  tried  to  forget  their  sufferings  in  sleep. 

"  George,  old  boy,  I  cannot  last  much  longer.  I  am  very 
weak,  and  I  suffer  from  dreadful  pains  in  my  stomach.  I 
wish  we  could  die  together,  for  I  don't  like  to  leave  you 
here  all  alone." 

"  Walter,  my  brave  fellow,  do  try  to  keep  up  for  another 
day.  I  know  by  the  appearance  of  the  gulls  that  we  are 
approaching  land,  and  we  must  be  nearing  the  track  of 
passing  vessels." 

"  Only  for  leaving  you  alone,  I  would  pray  for  death  as 
relief  from  my  sufferings ;"  and  the  young  man  fell  off  into 
another  light,  uneasy  slumber.  In  a  few  minutes  he  awoke 
and  clung  closer  to  Bailey,  as  if  to  derive  hope,  relief,  and 
life  from  the  contact. 

"George,  if  I  die  and  you  survive,  will  you  tell  Edith 
something?  Will  you  tell  her  that  I  said  that  if  I  had 
been  a  woman  I  would  have  loved  you  with  my  whole  heart 
and  soul  ?  But  you  will  not — you — will — not — you-u — " 
and  again  Walter  fell  into  another  light  doze.  In  a  min- 
ute or  two  he  was  partially  awake  again  and  said, 

"My  dear  George,  you — have — been — the  noblest — the 
bravest  of  friends — you  have — been  a — hero — hero— gave 
me  your — bread  and — water — tried — to  save  me — at  the 
risk — of — your  own — life."  He  slept  once  more. 

"  George,  George !  my  good  George !  I  have  just  been 
with  Edith — and — and  I  told  her  how  you — loved  her,  and 
how,  for  her  sake — you  starved  yourself  to  —  keep  me — 
alive." 

Walter's  head  reclined  on  George's  bosom.  Bailey  sup- 
ported him  with  one  arm,  and  pressed  his  cold,  thin  fingers 
in  grateful  reply  to  all  that  he  had  said. 

"  Walter,  Walter,  hush  !  Don't  talk.  Sleep.  Make  up 
your  mind  to  live.  I  have  a  presentiment  that  we  will  be 
picked  up  to-morrow.  It  will  soon  be  daylight.  Ha ! — 


164  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

See !  See !  —  There's  a  light !  —  a  ship's  light,  right  in  our 
track  !  Thank  God  !— Thank  God !  But,  heavens  !  if  she 
should  pass  us  without  seeing  us  !  See,  Walter !  There's 
the  light,  about  five  miles  astern  of  us!" 

The  sight  revived  Walter,  who  raised  himself  on  his  el- 
bow, and  gazed  long  and  steadily  on  the  approaching  light. 
At  first  the  vessel  could  be  seen  like  a  dim  dark  cloud  mov- 
ing along  the  sea;  but,  as  day  gradually  dawned,  the  sails 
became  whiter,  and  the  outlines  of  a  large  brig  were  clearly 
defined.  What  if,  in  the  uncertain  light  and  at  that  ear- 
ly hour,  the  lookout  should  fail  to  see  them !  The  very 
thought  was  horrible,  and  seemed  to  inspire  Bailey  with 
new  strength.  He  took  off  his  shirt,  attached  it  to  an  oar, 
and  lashed  the  improvised  flag-staff  to  the  mast  of  the  raft. 
He  tied  Walter's  handkerchief  and  his  own  to  another  oar, 
and  kept  waving  it  to  and  fro,  to  attract,  if  possible,  some 
wary  sailor  on  board  of  the  brig.  But  no  one  seemed  to 
see  them.  The  vessel  was  now  nearly  in  a  line  with  them, 
and  about  three  miles  to  the  westward.  The  agony  of 
Bailey  was  fearful ;  he  waved  the  oar  in  vain.  He  knew 
that  the  raft  itself  could  not  be  seen  from  the  brig ;  but 
surely,  surely  they  must  see  the  mast,  sail,  and  white  shirt 
flying  from  the  top  of  the  oar.  Almost  frantic  with  de- 
spair, Bailey  climbed  the  frail  mast  and  waved  the  oar  with 
superhuman  energy.  In  breathless  expectation  he  fancied 
that  he  perceived  a  movement  of  the  men  on  board :  he 
imagined  that  he  saw  a  slight  change  in  the  course  of  the 
brig :  then  he  became  sure  of  it,  and  let  the  oar  fall  from 
his  hand,  exclaiming, "  Hurrah  !  Walter,  we  are  saved !"  and 
glided  down  to  the  raft  in  a  swoon. 

Poor  Walter  crawled  over  to  his  preserver — the  indom- 
itable, the  iron-willed — and  poured  a  little  of  the  rain-wa- 
ter down  his  throat,  and  sprinkled  some  over  his  face ;  he 
chafed  his  hands,  and  rubbed  his  temples,  and  prayed  to 
God  to  spare  the  life  of  his  noble  friend.  Bailey's  condi- 
tion seemed  to  rouse  the  feeble  WTalter  to  new  life  and 
energy. 

In  the  mean  time  a  boat  arrived  from  tho  brig,  contain- 
ing the  second  mate  and  four  sailors ;  and  as  the  officer 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  165 

stepped  on  board  and  glanced  at  the  two  skeletons,  his  first 
question  wa«, 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  No  !  Hand  me  that  flask  of  brandy." 
He  poured  a  spoonful  down  his  throat,  which  in  a  short 
time  brought  Bailey  back  to  his  senses.  The  kind-hearted 
seaman  also  administered  some  to  Walter,  and  the  stimulant 
greatly  revived  him.  The  two  men  were  tenderly  helped 
into  the  small  boat  and  gently  lifted  on  board  of  the  brig ; 
for  sailors,  though  often  rude  and  rough,  have  kindly  hearts. 
With  their  hollow,  sunken  eyes,  high  cheek-bones,  matted 
hair,  and  unshaven  faces ;  with  their  clothes  in  tatters,  and 
with  their  bodies  covered  with  salt-water  boils,  the  two 
young  men  presented  to  the  captain  and  crew  a  most  pit- 
iable spectacle.  As  they  were  gently  lifted  on  board  the 
William  Penn,  a  passenger  with  jet-black  hair  and  eye- 
brows, and  clean-shaven,  sallow  face,  cast  upon  the  two  suf- 
ferers a  glance  as  devoid  of  sympathy  as  if  the  two  men 
had  been  two  logs  of  wood. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  It  is  the  nature  of  the  human  disposition  to  hate  him  whom  you 
have  injured." — TACITUS. 

THE  captain  and  crew  of  the  William  Penn,  with  that  gen- 
erous hospitality  which  characterizes  their  profession,  did 
all  in  their  power  to  nurse  the  young  men  into  health  and 
strength.  Bailey's  condition  was  far  worse  than  Wilde's ; 
for  he  had  eaten  less  food  and  taken  less  rest,  and  had  suf- 
fered, besides,  from  constant  anxiety,  particularly  during  the 
time  when  the  four  half -crazy  sailors  had  sought  to  kill 
Walter  for  food  and  drink.  George  Bailey  lay  for  several 
days  in  his  berth  almost  unable  to  move,  and  had  to  be 
fed  like  an  infant  on  the  lightest  kind  of  food — a  biscuit 
broken  in  hot  water  and  flavored  with  a  little  sugar.  Provi- 
dentially his  stomach  could  retain  nothing  stronger  or  heavi- 
er, or  the  sailors  would  have  literally  killed  him  with  kind- 
ness. He  was  perfectly  rational,  but  thoroughly  exhausted ; 


166  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

and,  from  his  previous  study  of  medicine,  knew  that  he  was 
in  danger  of  gastric  fever,  which,  in  his  present  condition, 
must  inevitably  destroy  his  life.  Each  day,  however,  he 
gained  a  little,  and  the  severe  pains  began  to  subside ;  but 
still  he  was  hardly  able  to  move  his  hands  or  speak  above  a 
whisper. 

Walter's  recovery  was  rapid,  thanks  to  the  excellent  care 
he  had  received  on  the  raft,  and  it  was  now  his  turn  to 
nurse  his  preserver — a  labor  of  love  which  was  performed 
with  a  gentleness  and  patience  truly  womanly.  He  con- 
stantly sat  beside  Bailey's  bed  in  the  little  state-room  which 
the  mate  had  given  up  for  his  use,  and  coaxed  him  to  eat 
his  food  and  drink  a  little  rum  diluted  with  water.  Some- 
times Walter  read  aloud,  in  a  low,  rich  tone,  which  strange- 
ly harmonized  with  the  splash  of  the  sea  against  the  sides  of 
the  brig,  old  tales  of  shipwrecks  and  disasters  at  sea,  or  the 
"  Life  of  Captain  Cook,"  or  the  voyages  of  Vasco  de  Gama 
or  Magellan ;  or  sometimes  he  read  several  chapters  out 
of  the  Bible ;  for,  if  we  except  the  lower  order  of  "  yellow 
covered  "  literature,  there  was  nothing  else  on  board  to  read. 
For  hours  Bailey  would  shut  his  eyes  and  lie  awake,  drink- 
ing in  the  mellow  tones  of  Walter's  voice ;  and  when  Wal- 
ter, thinking  him  asleep,  would  cease  reading,  close  the 
book,  and  arise  to  prepare  his  food  or  medicine,  Bailey  would 
open  his  large  sunken  eyes,  and  gaze  tenderly  and  fondly  on 
his  young  friend — for  was  he  not  Edith's  brother?  and  had 
he  not  saved  his  life  on  the  raft? 

"  How  are  you  to-day,  old  fellow — stronger,  eh  ?"  Walter 
would  ask. 

"I  am  slowly- gaining,  thanks  to  your  watchful  care  and 
patient  nursing.  The  danger  of  fever  is  past,  for  my  food 
rests  easily  on  my  stomach  and  no  longer  causes  pain." 
Bailey  spoke  very  slowly  and  with  some  effort. 

"  There,  now,  that  will  do,"  said  Walter ;  "  go  to  sleep 
and  don't  talk  any  more." 

"  Walter,  does  it  tire  you  to  read  aloud  ?" 

"  No,  not  at  all ;  for  you  know  that  I  read  in  such  a  low 
monotone  it  cannot  hurt  me  in  the  least.  I  could  read 
aloud  all  day." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  167 

"  Well,  my  friend,  if  it  does  not  tire  you,  and  if  you  have 
nothing  better  to  do,"  said  Bailey,  "  it  soothes  me  very  much 
to  listen  to  your  voice." 

So  Walter  read  these  lugubrious  accounts  of  sufferings 
similar  to  their  own,  which,  after  their  recent  misery,  had 
a  strange  charm  for  both  of  them.  Bailey  lay  and  listened 
and  thought.  He  heard  the  voice,  but  caught  no  idea  from 
the  book,  because  his  mind  was  thinking  of  his  beautiful 
Edith  (beautiful  to  him,  if  not  to  others),  of  her  intellect 
and  her  goodness ;  and  her  brother's  reading  enabled  him 
to  realize  the  more  readily  that  he  had  obeyed  her  wishes 
in  risking  his  life  to  save  that  brother  from  a  horrible  death, 
lie  thought  it  would  be  a  pleasant  thing  to  die  now,  and  let 
the  grateful  Walter  tell  her  how  he  had  kept  his  promise. 
Perhaps  she  would  then  shed  a  tear  for  his  memory  and  his 
fate,  and  this  solitary  tear  would  amply  compensate  him  for 
all  his  sufferings.  Poor  George !  Had  you  known  how  at 
this  very  moment  Edith  Wilde  grieved  far  more  for  you 
than  she  did  for  that  beloved  brother,  and  that  her  grief 
was  even  too  great  to  find  relief  in  tears,  perhaps  this  knowl- 
edge would  have  created  such  an  intoxication  of  delight  as 
would  have  superinduced  that  very  fever  which  you  dreaded 
a  few  days  ago. 

"Walter,  will  you  please  let  me  hold  your  hand?  I 
think  I  can  sleep  better  in  that  way.  Thank  you !" 

The  swash  of  the  sea,  the  low,  rich  voice  of  the  reader, 
the  touch  of  her  brother's  hand,  soothed  his  soul  to  such  a 
sweet  repose  as  he  had  never  felt  before.  He  was  relieved 
of  all  pain,  and  this  caused  him  to  feel  a  certain  luxury  in 
mere  existence.  Walter  Wilde's  attendance  was  inconceiv- 
ably pleasant  to  George  Bailey.  He  compared  his  present 
position  with  the  fate  which  had  almost  overtaken  him  in 
New  York — of  dying  in  the  streets  like  a  houseless,  owner- 
less dog,  and  thought  himself  in  paradise. 

George  Bailey  grew  stronger  day  by  day,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  second  week  since  the  rescue  he  was  able  to  appear 
on  the  deck,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Walter.  The  sunshine 
and  bracing  sea  air,  and,  above  all,  the  perfect  content  of 
mind,  rapidly  hastened  his  recovery. 


168  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

The  passenger  with  the  very  black  hair  and  eyebrows 
and  the  swarthy  complexion  took  good  care  to  shun  the 
company  of  the  two  friends,  as  they  paced  up  and  down 
the  deck  for  exercise ;  and  well  he  might,  for  that  passen- 
ger, as  the  reader  will  remember,  was  no  other  than  Myron 
Finch,  the  forger,  fleeing  from  justice  and  the  vengeance  of 
the  man  whom  he  had  so  foully  wronged,  under  the  alias 
of  Alexander  Brown.  When  Finch  had  cast  a  look  of  ut- 
ter indifference  at  the  two  human  skeletons  whom  the  crew 
had  saved,  he  failed  to  recognize  either  of  them,  and  wheth- 
er they  lived  or  died  was  a  matter  of  no  consequence  to 
him.  He  had  heard  the  younger  man  address  the  elder, 
sometimes  as  George  and  sometimes  as  Bailey ;  and  it  is 
doubtful,  but  for  hearing  the  names,  if  he  could  have  recog- 
nized in  the  attenuated  face  and  figure  of  the  grave,  mid- 
dle-aged man  before  him  the  once  gay,  gallant,  and  light- 
hearted  George  Bailey.  He  made  the  discovery,  too,  that 
the  younger  man  was  the  only  son  of  William  Wilde,  of 
the  banking-house  of  Warrenton,  Wilde  <k  Co. 

While  Bailey  and  Wilde  were  pacing  the  deck,  Finch 
was  standing  before  his  little  glass  in  his  state-room,  care- 
fully scanning  his  own  face  to  see  if  his  disguise  were  com- 
plete ;  for  at  the  sight  of  Bailey  all  Lis  fear  and  hatred 
were  revived.  Satisfied  that  he  could  not  be  recognized, 
he  muttered  to  himself,  "  We  shall  reach  Valparaiso  in  a 
few  days,  and  I  can  avoid  them.  I  can  be  ill,  and  keep  my 
state-room.  Suppose  he  were  to  recognize  me — what  then  ? 
He  has  no  proofs.  Pshaw !  I  shall  trust  to  the  twelve  years 
which  have  elapsed  since  then,  and  to  my  disguise."  Not- 
withstanding this  bracing  up  of  his  courage,  he  fairly  trem- 
bled at  the  bare  idea  of  being  recognized  by  George  Bailey. 

Finch,  was  too  self-indulgent  to  feign  sickness  and  to  be 
put  on  a  spare  diet ;  and  so  he  appeared  at  the  dinner-table 
in  the  cabin  as  usual,  on  the  first  day  that  Bailey  was  able 
to  dine  with  the  captain  and  officers.  George  was  seized 
with  a  strange  feeling  of  loathing  for  this  Alexander  Brown 
— something  like  the  feeling  one  has  for  a  noxious  reptile. 
He  could  not  avoid  thinking  that  he  had  seen  those  pale 
eyes  before,  so  out  of  harmony  with  the  ebon  hair  and  eye- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  169 

brows,  and  the  uneasy,  furtive  glance  seemed  familiar  to 
him ;  but  where  or  under  what  circumstances  he  had  seen 
him,  he  could  not  form  the  most  remote  idea.  Perhaps, 
had  he  not  known  that  Myron  Finch  was  a  prosperous  mer- 
chant, living  in  grand  style  in  New  York,  his  suspicions 
might  have  been  aroused;  for,  in  brooding  over  the  crime 
committed  by  this  heartless  rascal,  Bailey  had  his  every 
feature,  nay,  the  very  color  of  every  feature,  photographed 
on  his  memory. 

In  the  course  of  conversation  at  the  table  Walter  Wilde 
remarked,  in  the  easy  tone  of  a  man  accustomed  to  the 
usages  of  the  best  society, 

"  I  suppose,  Mr.  Brown,  you  have  been  a  great  traveller 
by  sea  and  land  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Brown  (we  shall  call  him  for  the  present 
by  his  alias),  "  I  have  crossed  the  Atlantic  ten  times ;  I 
have  been  several  times  to  Calcutta  and  Melbourne,  and  I 
am  now  on  my  way  to  some  of  the  cities  on  the  west  coast 
of  South  America,  on  the  business  of  our  firm." 

"  You  are  not  an  American,  then  ?"  asked  Walter. 

"  Ob,  bless  you,  no  !  I  have  not  that  privilege,  for  I  am 
a  native  of  London.  Our  house  has  its  head-quarters  there, 
but  we  have  correspondents  in  every  part  of  the  globe.  I 
am  only  their  humble  agent." 

Although  this  was  spoken  by  Brown  with  the  easy,  care- 
less drawl  of  an  Englishman,  not  overdone,  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  tone  which  caused  Bailey  to  start — a  move- 
ment that  was  not  lost  on  Mr.  Brown.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  simple  question  asked  by  Walter  that  would  lead 
the  confidential  agent  of  a  great  English  house  to  enter 
into  minute  particulars  about  his  business,  had  he  not  had 
an  object  in  letting  them  know  who  and  what  he  was.  He 
was  too  explicit  by  half,  and  a  keener  observer  than  any 
person  sitting  at  the  table  would  have  been  able  to  de- 
tect "  the  lie  circumstantial."  In  vain  Bailey  racked  his 
brain  to  recall  when  he  had  before  seen  those  colorless  eyes 
and  heard  that  peculiar  voice.  It  must  have  been  some 
Englishman  who  had  had  business  relations  with  Van  Hess 
&  Co.  when  he  was  their  head-clerk. 


170  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

In  order  to  change  the  subject,  Brown  asked  "VY alter,  for 
he  never  directed  his  conversation  to  Bailey, 

"  How  long  were  you  exposed  on  that  raft  ?" 

"For  nearly  seven  weeks,"  replied  Walter;  "and  had  it 
not  been  for  my  friend  here,  I  would  have  died  two  or  three 
weeks  before  we  were  rescued.  Such  patience,  strength,  and 
fortitude  as  Bailey  showed  I  have  never  even  read  of." 

"  Nonsense,  Walter !  you  showed  as  much  pluck  as  any 
of  us,"  interposed  Bailey,  who  could  not  bear  to  hear  him- 
self praised.  "Mr.  Brown,"  he  continued,  "did  you  ever 
have  any  business  relations  with  the  house  of  Van  Hess  <fe 
Co.  about  twelve  or  thirteen  years  ago  ?  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  must  have  seen  you  before." 

"Me?"  faltered  Brown,  "me?  Why,  what  on  earth 
could  I  have  to  do  with  the  firm  of  Van  Hess,  Finch  & 
Co.?  I — I — I  believe  that  is  the  present  name  of  the  firm; 
is  it  not,  Mr.  Wilde  ?" 

Brown  had  unconsciously  betrayed  himself  by  his  hesi- 
tation and  stammering,  and  by  using  the  right  name  of  the 
house.  He  had  lost  his  usual  presence  of  mind,  when  he 
found  Bailey  scrutinizing  his  features  and  trying  to  search 
out  his  identity  beneath  the  dyed  hair  and  discolored  skin. 

"Did  you  ever  see  or  know  Finch,  the  junior  partner?" 
asked  Bailey,  in  no  friendly  tone.  "  You  have  mentioned 
his  name;  did  you  know  him?" 

"  Ye-e-s,  ye-e-s,"  faltered  Brown,  trying  with  all  his  might 
to  cover  his  fear ;  I — I  met  him  in  society,  at  the  club,  but 
never  in  business." 

"Then,"  said  Bailey,  with  a  fearful  frown  knitting  his 
brows,  and  an  expression  of  concentrated  rage  on  his  face, 
"  then  you  met  the  greatest  liar,  the  greatest  hypocrite,  and 
the  greatest  rascal  unhung!  you  met  a  forger;  you  met  a 
man  who  stole  another  man's  good  name,  who  stole  anoth- 
er man's  position,  who  stole  another  man's  betrothed,  and 
then  maltreated  her.  Oh !  you  met  a  man  meaner  and 
more  villanous  than  the  very  devil  of  the  Scriptures ;  and 
woe,  woe,  woe  to  that  man  or  devil  if  he  ever  crosses  my 
path !" 

Words  could  give  no  adequate  idea  of  the  hatred,  the 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  171 

vindictive  hatred,  displayed  in  Bailey's  low,  deep,  sonorous 
voice.  Brown  grew  pale  even  below  his  tobacco -stained 
face,  and  his  hands  and  knees  shook  with  fear.  A  deadly 
terror  filled  his  heart ;  for  Bailey  might  yet  detect  him  in 
spite  of  all.  The  truth  was,  that,  without  knowing  him, 
Bailey  felt  his  presence,  and  hence  the  outpouring  of  his 
wrath.  Once  or  twice  Bailey  came  within  an  ace  of  rec- 
ognizing Finch,  who  was  only  saved  by  the  imperfect  light 
of  the  cabin. 

"  Why,  old  boy,"  asked  Walter,  "  what's  the  matter  ? 
This  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen  you  angry.  You  look  as 
if  that  Finch  had  stolen  all  those  things  from  you — as  if 
you  had  been  the  victim." 

"The  matter,  Walter  ?  The  matter?  Oh  ay!  excuse 
me ;  but  when  I  think  of  that  consummate  villain,  I  seem 
to  forget  everything — everything.  Let  us  go  on  deck :  the 
air  of  the  cabin  suffocates  me !" 

When  alone,  Bailey  turned  to  Wilde  and  said,  "  Yes, 
Walter,  I  was  the  victim.  Your  father  and  sister  know  all 
about  it.  A  perfectly  innocent  man,  that  devil  Finch  sent 
me  to  State-prison  for  ten  years,  after  robbing  me  of  my 
reputation,  my  position,  and  my  betrothed  !  and  the  cruel- 
ties inflicted  on  me  in  that  earthly  hell  would  have  killed 
me  in  a  year  but  for  the  hope  of  vengeance.  Oh  !  what 
were  the  sufferings  on  the  raft  compared  to  the  agony  of 
the  shower-bath  and  solitary  confinement  in  a  dark  cell  on 
bread-and-water,  with  no  companion  for  sixty  days  but  the 
rats !  It  was  an  honorable  death  to  die  on  the  raft,  doing 
one's  duty  and  struggling  for  life  in  the  light  of  day. 
Walter,  you  know  now  why  I  was  able  to  bear  up  when 
others  succumbed.  Ah,  my  lad,  I  had  a  terrible  training, 
as  I  told  you  one  day,  ironically,  in  San  Francisco.  I  fell 
so  very  low,  I  sounded  the  very  depth  of  misfortune.  The 
face  and  voice  of  that  man  Brown  remind  me  so  much  of 
Finch  that,  did  I  not  know  he  was  in  New  York,  I  would 
almost  think  it  was  he  in  disguise ;  but  I  know  it  is  only  a 
delusion,  caused  by  the  weakness  of  my  nerves.  Ah,  Wal- 
ter, mine  has  been  a  sad,  sad  story  !  The  opening  chapters 
were  beautiful,  but  farther  on  it  became  a  tragedy.  Only 


172  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

for  your  good  sister  my  poor  mother  might  have  died  from 
want,  and  I  might  have  starved  in  the  streets  of  my  native 
city." 

"  My  dear  George  " — and  the  tears  were  streaming  down 
Walter's  eyes  as  he  spoke — "  my  poor  friend,  your  suffer- 
ings have  been  awful !  God  bless  Edith  for  what  she  has 
done  for  both  you  and  your  mother !" 

Bailey's  reply  to  this  was  an  AMEN  !  uttered  in  a  deep, 
sincere,  feeling  tone. 

Mr.  Alexander  Brown  did  not  dare  any  longer  to  trust 
to  his  disguise.  The  fierce  denunciation  of  Finch  at  the 
dinner-table  made  him  really  sick ;  and  hence  he  crept  into 
what  he  termed  his  "  hole,"  and  remained  there  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  voyage.  In  a  few  days  the  William  Penn 
entered  the  harbor  of  Valparaiso,  and  Bailey  and  Wilde  re- 
tired to  a  hotel  to  recuperate.  Walter  had  abundance  of 
money,  which  he  had  preserved  in  a  belt  around  his  waist ; 
and  even  if  he  had  not,  he  could  have  drawn  on  his  father 
for  any  reasonable  amount.  Mr.  Myron  Finch,  alias  Alex- 
ander Brown,  did  not  remain  an  hour  in  the  city,  but  fled 
as  fast  and  as  far  from  the  man  whom  he  feared  as  the  lim- 
ited means  of  conveyance  in  Chili  Avould  permit. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  The  night  of  sorrow  now  is  turned  to  day." — SHAKSPEARE. 

EDITH  WILDE  had  resolutely  resumed  her  social  and  do- 
mestic duties.  The  only  difference  observable  in  her  bear- 
ing and  conduct  was  a  certain  air  of  sad  seriousness  toward 
her  friends,  and  a  quiet,  thoughtful  affection  toward  her  fa- 
ther, whose  every  wish  she  seemed  to  anticipate.  Toward 
the  little  orphans  she  manifested  a  spirit  of  kindly  care 
which  relieved  orphanage  of  half  its  misfortune.  While 
her  father  was  busy  at  the  bank,  she  devoted  hours  to 
teaching  the  children,  consoling  the  afflicted,  and  nursing 
the  sick.  There  was  a  pleasure  in  the  work,  for  it  brought 
her  nearer,  she  fancied,  to  George  Bailey  and  his  mother. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  173 

The  little  ones  loved  her.  Those  who  were  cross  and  irri- 
table with  fever  went  asleep  in  her  arms ;  and  often,  while 
lying  in  their  little  cots,  recovering  from  measles  or  mumps, 
the  children,  at  the  sound  of  every  step  on  the  stair,  would 
turn  their  eyes  anxiously  toward  the  door  to  see  if  Miss 
Wilde  were  coming;  for  they  well  knew  that  she  never 
came  empty-handed.  Oranges,  peaches,  pears,  grapes,  and 
other  fruits  in  their  season,  she  invariably  brought  to  them 
in  her  little  basket.  She  stroked  their  hair,  kissed  them, 
and  soothed  in  a  hundred  gentle  ways  the  poor  little 
motherless  waifs. 

Her  great  grief  she  resolutely  locked  within  her  heart; 
and  she  endeavored  with  all  her  might  neither  to  pine  nor 
mope,  nor  shorten  her  life,  if  she  could  help  it.  Work, 
wholesome  work,  she  found  to  be  the  very  best  medicine, 
the  great  panacea  for  the  aches  of  the  heart  and  the  brain ; 
and  of  all  places  she  preferred  to  work  in  the  orphan  asy- 
lum, because  there  she  could  best  minister  to  innocent  and 
suffering  humanity. 

Her  interview  with  Mrs.  Myron  Finch  had  upset  her 
nerves  for  a  day  or  two ;  for  even  if  George  Bailey  were 
dead,  Edith  did  not  wish  to  know  that  he  was  mourned  for 
by  such  a  woman.  Mrs.  Finch's  passion  was,  in  the  eyes  of 
Edith,  besmeared  with  a  moral  slime  which  contaminated 
whatever  it  touched.  Something  akin  to  hatred — perhaps 
we  had  better  term  it  a  very  strong  dislike — arose  in  her 
heart  toward  this  unprincipled  and  shameless  woman.  She 
dreaded  to  see  her  again  ;  she  feared  even  to  hear  from  her. 
And  yet  Mrs.  Myron  Finch  had  not  said  or  done  much  to 
evoke  this  feeling  of  aversion.  In  truth,  Edith's  feelings 
and  motives  were  so  mixed  and  indefinable  that  she  herself 
would  have  found  it  extremely  difficult  to  explain  them. 
Good  as  she  was,  she  was,  after  all,  only  a  woman ;  and 
what  -woman  can  bear  to  know  that  another  woman  loves 
her  lover  ? 

Two  months  have  passed  away  since  the  visit  of  Mrs. 
Finch,  and  not  another  word  has  been  heard  of  the  crew 
and  passengers  of  the  Sebastian  Cabot.  One  day,  at  din- 
ner, Edith  observed  an  unusual  expression  of  enjoyment  on 


174  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

her  father's  face,  and  she  wondered  very  much  to  see  it,  for 
ever  since  the  news  of  the  wreck  he  had  been  despondent, 
and  took  no  interest  in  anything — not  even  in  the  bank. 
His  present  pleased  expression  could  not  have  been  caused 
by  any  afflux  of  money  to  his  coffers ;  in  fact,  she  was  at 
a  loss  to  know  what  had  happened  to  give  him  so  much 
pleasure.  The  old  gentleman  eyed  her  very  slyly  from 
time  to  time;  and  he,  in  turn,  wondered  why  she  did  not 
ask  him  the  reason  he  felt  so  happy  this  evening.  It  was 
a  part  of  his  little  game  to  make  her  ask  him,  and  he  was 
somewhat  annoyed  at  her  delay  in  doing  so.  He  had  good 
news  for  her,  and  he  desired  to  give  it  by  degrees  rather 
than  abruptly,  on  account  of  her  nerves.  At  length  she 
said, 

"  Father,  why  do  you  look  so  happy  to-day  ?"  and  then, 
as  a  sudden  thought  flashed  through  her  mind,  she  said, 
"  You  have  good  news — I  know  you  have — they  are  saved !" 
Edith  turned  the  color  of  the  dead ;  her  heart  for  a  moment 
or  two  ceased  to  beat,  as  a  great  hope  rushed  into  her  soul. 

"  Edith,  my  love,  there  is  hope — just  a  little  hope.  But 
calm  yourself.  The  news  was  very  sudden,  and  I  myself 
was  almost  killed  with  joy." 

"  Father,  you  may  tell  me  all :  you  need  not  fear  for 
me." 

"  He  is  alive,"  said  Mr.  Wilde — "  rescued  from  a  raft. 
He  is  on  his  way  to  New  York,  and  he  may  be  here  at  any 
moment !" 

Edith  Wilde  well  knew  that  her  father  referred  to  Walter. 
She  was  extremely  anxious  to  hear  about  Bailey,  but  hesi- 
tated to  ask  the  question.  The  old  gentleman  was  so 
wrapped  up  in  his  only  son,  the  inheritor  of  his  name  and 
his  business,  that  he  used  the  singular  pronoun  instead  of 
the  plural :  he  thought  of  Walter  only,  while  Edith  thought 
of  both. 

"  Thank  Heaven !"  said  Edith,  no  longer  able  to  withstand 
her  anxiety,  "  Walter  is  safe ;  but  what  became  of  his  com- 
panion, Mr.  Bailey  ?  Was  he,  too,  rescued  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  he  was,"  replied  Mr.  Wilde ;  "  they  were 
both  together.  But  here  is  Walter's  letter,  written  in  Val- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  175 

paraiso ;  read  for  yourself,  and  see  what  he  says  about  your 
protege.  It  seems  that  Bailey  acted  nobly,  and  that  my 
son  thinks  him  a  perfect  hero — a  sort  of  Chevalier  Bayard 
or  Sir  Philip  Sidney." 

With  trembling  fingers  Edith  read  the  letter. 

"  Hotel  Bolivar,  Valparaiso,  October  19th,  18 — . 

"  MY  DEAR  FATHER, — This  note  will  startle  you  not  a 
little,  for  doubtless  you  have  long  ago  given  me  up  as  lost. 
I  direct  to  the  bank,  because  if  it  were  to  go  to  the  house 
it  might  fall  into  Edith's  hands  and  shock  her  delicate 
nerves.  Your  nerves  are  not  easily  moved,  and  you  are 
always  prepared  for  every  contingency. 

"  I  will  reserve  my  story  for  a  winter's  evening  around 
the  library  fire.  Suffice  to  say  that  Mr.  Bailey  took  such 
excellent  care  of  me  in  San  Francisco  that,  before  I  left, 
my  bronchial  trouble  had  almost  disappeared.  The  voyage 
home  had  been  prosperous  and  pleasant  until  we  were  over- 
taken by  a  most  terrific  gale  south-west  of  Cape  Horn.  The 
ship  foundered.  One  portion  of  the  crew  and  officers  took 
to  the  only  remaining  boat,  while  another  portion,  with  Bai- 
ley and  myself,  took  to  a  raft.  For  nearly  seven  weeks  we 
suffered  such  misery  as  no  pen  could  describe — cold,  heat, 
hunger,  thirst,  cramps,  boils  —  every  torture  that  you  can 
think  of  assailed  us.  All  died  or  went  mad,  and  jumped 
into  the  ocean,  except  Bailey  and  me.  It  would  take  a 
whole  volume  to  tell  you  how  Bailey  preserved  my  life ; 
how  he  starved  himself  and  endured  the  horrible  thirst  in 
order  to  give  me  the  greater  portion  of  his  bread-and-wa- 
ter;  and,  in  spite  of  all  my  protestations,  he  continued  this 
to  the  very  last.  Then,  when  those  nasty  Portuguese  sailors 
wanted  to  kill  me  for  the  purpose  of — but  I  cannot  horrify 
you  by  telling  you  the  purpose — Bailey  frightened  off  the 
four  crazy  men,  and  shot  one  of  them  dead,  who  had  at- 
tempted to  stab  him.  He  soothed  me,  nursed  me,  and  kept 
me  alive.  Only  for  George  Bailey,  my  father  would  have 
no  son,  my  sister  no  brother  to-day.  This  man  is  a  hero,  if 
there  ever  was  one  !  and  yet,  with  all  his  strength,  skill,  and 
courage,  he  is  as  gentle  as  a  child,  and  as  patient  as  a  worn- 


176  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

an.  He  never  gave  ont  until  the  moment  of  rescue ;  and 
then,  when  he  knew  that  ray  life  was  saved,  he  succumbed 
to  the  utter  weakness  caused  by  privations  which  would 
have  killed  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  out  of  every  thou- 
sand men.  He  is  now  to  me  something  more  than  a  broth- 
er— he  is  my  preserver.  I  send  my  best  love,  and  he  his 
kind  regards,  to  you  and  Edith.  You  may  expect  to  see 
us  almost  as  soon  as  this  note. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"  WALTER  WILDE. 

"  P.S.  DEAR  EDITH, — You  never  performed  a  better 
action  in  all  your  life  than  that  of  inducing  our  father  to 
employ  Mr.  Bailey.  W.  W/' 


Edith  read  the  letter  over  twice  and  drank  in  every  word 
of  it.  Many  emotions  stirred  her  heart — pride  in  the  su- 
perior moral  and  physical  qualities  of  the  man  whom  she 
loved,  gratitude  to  God  for  the  preservation  of  Bailey  and 
her  brother,  and,  dominant  over  all,  an  ecstatic  joy  pervaded 
her  whole  being  at  the  mere  certainty  that  both  were  living 
and  likely  to  be  home  in  a  few  days.  There  was  a  feeling 
of  exquisite  pleasure,  too,  in  the  thought  that  she  had  not 
been  mistaken  in  her  estimate  of  George  Bailey's  character, 
and  that  her  brother  and  father  now  knew  him  for  what  he 
really  was. 

After  the  reading  of  the  letter,  Mr.  Wilde  and  Edith  sat 
a  few  minutes  in  silence,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  fully  real- 
izing their  happiness.  The  silence  was  at  last  broken  by 
the  former,  who  asked  Edith,  "  How  had  she  managed  to 
find  out  what  manner  of  man  Mr.  Bailey  was  ?" 

"  I  knew  his  mother.  Mrs.  Bailey,  next  to  my  own 
mother,  was  the  best  and  noblest  woman  I  had  ever  known. 
She  had  constantly  spoken  of  her  son,  and  by  this  means  I 
came  to  know  his  character  almost  as  well  as  if  we  had 
been  brought  up  together.  I  believed  him  entirely  inno- 
cent of  the  crime  for  which  he  suffered  such  cruel  pun- 
ishment, and  I  deeply  sympathized  with  the  stricken  lady. 
AVhen  her  son  came,  not  to  ask  employment  but  to  express 
his  gratitude  for  the  little  kindness  I  had  extended  to  his 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  177 

mother,  and  when  Mr.  Grady  asked  you  to  give  him  work, 
I  saw  the  justice  of  the  request,  and  urged  you,  against 
your  '  business  principles,'  to  employ  him ;  and  this  you 
did,  like  the  good,  kind  father  that  you  are ;  and  have  you 
not  had  your  reward?" 

"  You  are  right,  my  dear,  perfectly  right.  What  a  man 
this  little  woman  would  have  made  !  In  her,  or  rather  his, 
hands  the  house  of  Warrenton,  Wilde  &  Co.  would  have 
held  its  own." 

"  I  never  want  to  be  a  man.  I  prefer  to  be  as  it  pleased 
God  to  make  me.  I  despise  those  women  who  are  perpet- 
ually exclaiming  against  their  sex,  and  wishing  that  they 
were  men." 

"  Why,  Edith,  my  dear,  I  prefer  to  have  you  as  you  are 
— my  comfort  and  my  consolation  —  as  you  always  have 
been  since  your  mother's  death." 

"  I  have  learned,"  said  Edith,  "  two  great  lessons  by  my 
association  with  Mrs.  Bailey.  The  first  is,  that  to  prevent 
crime  we  must  begin  with  the  very  young ;  and  the  second 
is,  that  to  lessen  crime  we  must  provide  wholesome  employ- 
ment for  returned  convicts.  Suppose  those  orphans  had 
been  left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  their  surroundings,  at 
least  one-half  of  them  would  grow  up  criminals ;  and  sup- 
pose all  released  convicts  were  refused  employment  because 
they  could  not  be  trusted,  what  are  they  to  do  ?  They  must 
live  :  they  will  not  starve,  as  poor  George  Bailey  did ;  they 
will  join  the  ranks  of  the  criminal  class,  and  prey  upon  that 
very  society  which  refused  them  honest  work.  Take  care 
of  the  orphans,  the  worse  than  orphans  (that  is,  children 
with  drunken,  vicious  parents) ;  establish  schools,  reforma- 
tories—  I  mean  real  reformatories,  and  not  prisons;  take 
care  of  all  released  convicts,  and  trust  them  as  far  as  they 
deserve ;  and  the  money  saved  in  reducing  the  cost  of  pris- 
ons and  almshouses  would  more  than  support  all  these  in- 
stitutions for  the  prevention  of  crime.  Take  the  millions 
that  it  costs  to  support  what  is  called  'justice,'  from  the 
judge  down  to  the  policeman,  from  the  magnificent  court- 
house down  to  the  dingy  police  cell,  and  expend  but  one- 
quarter  of  the  amount  on  asylums,  reformatories,  and  schools, 

12 


178  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

and  see  what  a  blessed  change  for  the  better  there  would 
be !  This  '  eye  for  an  eye  and  tooth  for  a  tooth '  doctrine 
is  exploded ;  and  we  are  everywhere  suffering  from  the 
relics  of  Oriental  barbarism.  There  was  once  an  Oriental 
Preacher  who  came  from  God — who  was  the  Son  of  God — 
who  taught  something  better,  higher,  holier :  to  'do  good 
for  evil ;'  to  save  the  sinners ;  but  though  the  name  of  this 
great  Teacher  is  often  on  the  lips  of  professing  Christians, 
his  acts  they  will  not  imitate,  nor  his  example  follow.  My 
dear  father,  if  I  have  anything  to  leave  in  my  will,  it  will 
be  left  to  the  young  children  who  may  be  tempted  to  fall 
into  crime,  and  to  a  society  for  the  employment  of  released 
convicts." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  talking  like  a  statesman  !  "When  and 
where  did  you  form  these  opinions?  Society  could  not 
exist  under  such  conditions  as  you  contemplate." 

"I  have  been  much  alone,"  replied  Edith,  "and  I  have 
studied  out  my  theory,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  from  the  start- 
ing-point of  the  orphans  whom  I  have  under  my  care,  and 
from  the  miscarriage  of  '  justice '  which  deprived  Mrs.  Bai- 
ley of  a  son  and  sent  her  to  her  grave." 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  the  servant  announced 
Mr.  John  Grady,  and  the  words  were  scarcely  spoken  when 
into  the  library  stalked  the  gentleman  in  question,  accom- 
panied by  "Washington  Scroggs,  M.D.,  and  Miss  Jenny  Ed- 
wards. Grady  had  heard  the  good  news  of  the  rescue  from 
Mr.  Van  Hess,  and  had  run  off  to  inform  his  two  friends,  the 
doctor  and  Jenny,  both  of  whom  were  well  acquainted  with 
Bailey.  The  warm-hearted  and  impulsive  Grady  could  not 
rest  satisfied  until  he  had  the  information  from  the  "  foun- 
tain-head," as  he  termed  it ;  and  so  he  dragged  Miss  Ed- 
wards and  the  little  quack  off  with  him  to  Mr.  Wilde's 
house. 

"  Mr.  "Wilde,"  said  John  Grady,  "  I  am  delighted  to  hear 
the  good  news.  Miss  Wilde,  I  am  more  than  delighted  to 
hear  the  glad  tidings.  Our  friend,  the  brave  Mr.  Bailey, 
and  your  son  "  (turning  to  Mr.  Wilde)  "  are  both  saved, 
glory  be  to  God  !" 

Grady  had  never  asked  if  the  report  were  true,  for  in  a 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  179 

single  glance  he  had  read  it  in  the  two  faces  before  him ; 
and  he  was  too  much  in  the  habit  of  believing  what  he 
hoped,  to  have  the  least  doubt  at  the  present  moment.  It 
would  have  been  treason,  in  fact,  to  doubt ;  and  had  any 
one  had  the  presumption  to  doubt  in  his  presence,  it  is 
more  than  likely  that  he  would  have  felt  inclined  to  a  lib- 
eral use  of  the  "  carnal  weapon."  Grady  had  forgotten  to 
introduce  his  two  friends,  who  had  been  standing  in  his 
wake  all  the  time  he  was  speaking,  like  two  small  boats  at 
the  stern  of  some  large  steamer.  But  perceiving  that  Miss 
Wilde  and  her  father  were  both  looking  at  the  two  stran- 
gers, he  simply  said, 

"  Oh,  never  mind — this  is  Dr.  Washington  Scroggs,  and 
this  is  my  niece,  Jenny  Edwards.  Now,  tell  me  all  about 
the  rescue.  I  am  dying  to  hear  all  about  my  good  friend 
Bailey." 

Mr.  Wilde  handed  Grady  his  son's  letter  to  read,  and 
during  its  perusal  Edith  requested  Miss  Edwards  and  Dr. 
Scroggs  to  be  seated.  As  for  John  Grady,  in  his  present 
state  of  mental  excitement  it  would  have  been  impossible 
for  him  to  remain  quiet  or  seated.  As  he  read,  he  ejacu- 
lated, "  Yes,  yes !" — "  Just  so  !  just  so  !"— "  Truly  a  brave 
lad!"— "Just  like  him!"— "Good,  good!"  (This  was  at 
the  place  where  Walter  mentioned  the  shooting  of  the  crazy 
assassin.) 

When  he  had  finished  the  reading  of  the  letter,  to  the 
amazement  of  the  father  and  the  amusement  of  the  daugh- 
ter, John  Grady  walked  over  to  the  part  of  the  room  where 
Edith  sat  and  deliberately  shook  her  hand,  and  uttered  the 
following  words  in  a  husky  tone,  choked  with  strong  emo- 
tion, 

"  Miss  Wilde,  upon  my  honor  I  congratulate  you !" 

Edith,  blushing,  but  at  what  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  say,  simply  replied, 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Grady." 

Grady  walked  back  to  his  friends  and  said,  "  Jenny,  my 
dear,  read  that !"  and  when  she  had  finished,  he  handed  it 
to  the  little  quack,  saying,  "  Dr.  Scroggs,  you  had  the  hon- 
or of  seeing  and  knowing  my  friend,  George  Bailey — read 


180  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

that!"  and  when  the  little  man  had  ended  its  perusal,  he 
laid  the  letter  on  the  library-table,  walked  over  once  more 
to  Miss  \Vilde,  and  seizing  and  shaking  her  hand — he  had 
thoroughly  mastered  this  great  American  habit  of  hand- 
shaking— repeated  his  former  remark  in  a  louder  and  firm- 
er tone,  "Miss  Wilde,  upon  my  honor  I  congratulate  you!" 
Then  turning  to  his  two  friends,  said,  "  Come,  let  us  go. 
God  be  praised,  George  Bailey  is  alive !" 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  0  thou  invisible  spirit  of  wine,  if  thou  hast  no  name  to  be  known 
by,  let  us  call  thee — Devil !" — SHAKSPEARK. 

"RESTLESS  as  a  second  Cain,"  Myron  Finch  wandered 
from  city  to  city,  seeking  pleasure  and  finding  none.  Im- 
perfectly acquainted  with  the  Spanish  language,  and  hav- 
ing no  affinity  with  the  Spanish- American  people,  he  felt 
lonely,  ill  at  ease,  and  completely  discontented.  His  money 
did  not  bring  him  the  enjoyments  that  he  had  anticipated  ; 
and  he  had  not  the  resources  of  books  and  studies  to  fall 
back  upon  to  kill  the  time  which  hung  so  heavily  on  his 
hands.  He  frequented  the  theatres  and  restaurants,  and 
drank  a  great  deal  more  hard  liquor  than  was  good  for 
him.  The  habit  of  drinking  grew  on  him  apace ;  he  drank 
at  his  meals,  he  drank  at  night,  and  to  cure  his  headaches 
he  drank  in  the  morning  before  his  breakfast — in  fact,  he 
seldom  laid  a  sober  head  on  a  pillow.  In  his  wanderings 
from  place  to  place  he  carried  his  little  brandy-bottle  with 
him,  and  frequently  "  refreshed "  himself  with  unwatered 
potations.  He  drank  about  a  pint  of  brandy  every  day, 
and  yet  he  was  never  seen  intoxicated ;  for,  unfortunately 
for  himself,  his  head  was  as  hard  as  his  heart,  and  his 
drinks  were  pretty  evenly  distributed  over  the  sixteen  or 
seventeen  hours  of  the  day  when  he  was  not  asleep.  The 
inroads  that  this  course  of  life  made  on  his  constitution 
could  be  seen  in  the  flabbiness  of  his  flesh  and  the  puffi- 
ness  below  his  eyes.  In  quest  of  excitement,  he  sought 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  181 

the  gambling-houses ;  but  in  his  dazed  condition  he  was 
no  match  for  the  professional  gamblers,  whose  business  it 
was  to  fleece  such  men  as  Finch.  He  lost  a  great  deal  of 
money,  and  in  his  vain  efforts  to  recover  his  losses  he  al- 
most ruined  himself.  What  with  his  hotel  bills,  his  liquor 
bills,  and  his  heavy  losses  at  the  gambling-houses,  his  mon- 
ey was  fast  taking  wings.  He  had  not  a  single  real  friend 
in  the  world ;  but  this  melancholy  fact  gave  him  no  trou- 
ble. He  desired  the  association  of  the  fast  men  of  New 
York,  because  they  had  always  administered  to  his  pleas- 
ures ;  they  spoke  the  same  language,  and  possessed  the 
same  low  tastes;  but  as  for  these  Spaniards,  they  were 
worse  than  the  negroes  of  the  South  in  his  estimation. 
There  came  a  time  when  an  insatiable  desire  took  posses- 
sion of  his  mind  to  return  to  New  York.  He  began  to  re- 
flect that  the  Empire  City  was  the  only  city  in  the  world 
worth  living  in,  and  that  he  had  been  a  great  fool  for  ever 
leaving  it.  He  said  to  himself,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  re- 
gret, that  he  might  have  braved  the  whole  business  of  the 
forgery  by  making  a  proper  use  of  his  father-in-law  and 
Jenny  Edwards. 

Myron  Finch  was  a  thoroughly  miserable  man.  In  ad- 
dition to  the  destruction  of  his  constitution  by  liquor,  he 
had  received  a  sound  drubbing  from  a  jealous  Spanish- 
American,  whose  wife  (Finch's  washer- woman)  he  had 
grossly  insulted.  In  the  encounter  the  bridge  of  Finch's 
nose  had  been  broken.  He  was  now  so  changed  in  one 
short  year  that  it  is  doubtful  if  even  Jenny  Edwards  could 
have  recognized  him.  For  several  weeks  he  had  been  con- 
fined to  his  room  from  the  combined  effects  of  the  beating 
and  the  stimulants,  and  it  required  all  the  physician's  skill 
to  subdue  the  fever  and  to  restore  him  to  a  partial  state  of 
health.  Poverty,  like  an  armed  man,  stared  him  in  the 
face,  and  as  he  lay  on  his  sick-bed,  and  found  himself  sink- 
ing lower  and  lower,  and  becoming  daily  poorer  and  poor- 
er, the  desire  to  return  to  New  York  grew  into  a  sort  of 
passion.  What  he  intended  to  do  there,  or  what  was  to 
.  become  of  him  when  he  got  there,  never  once  entered  his 
mind.  In  his  present  mental  and  physical  condition,  had 


182  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

he  been  offered  all  Peru,  with  the  proviso  that  he  must  live 
in  the  country  for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  he  would  have 
indignantly  refused  the  bribe.  When  so  far  recovered  that 
he  could  walk  out  into  the  streets  and  public  squares  of 
Lima,  the  utter  loneliness  of  his  situation  among  thousands 
of  strangers,  not  one  of  whom  knew  him  except  the  sharp- 
ers who  had  cheated  and  robbed  him  of  his  money,  was 
forced  home  to  his  heart,  stony  as  it  was,  with  an  energy 
thoroughly  depressing.  Aimless,  sick  in  body,  and  suffer- 
ing tortures  from  a  diseased  liver,  Finch  wandered  from  his 
lodgings  to  the  public  squares,  and  from  the  public  squares 
back  to  his  lodgings.  His  appetite  for  drink  increased  as 
his  appetite  for  food  decreased ;  and  even  he  knew  that  a 
few  months  more  of  such  a  life  must  inevitably  kill  him. 

In  this  wretched  state  of  body  and  mind  Finch  never 
felt  one  pang  of  remorse  for  the  ruin  he  had  wrought.  He 
thoroughly  hated  all  whom  he  had  wronged — Jenny  Ed- 
wards, Washington  Scroggs,  George  Bailey,  and  his  own 
wife  and  harmless  children.  Nay,  in  this  dark  hour  he 
could  have  found  it  in  his  heart  to  kill  all  his  victims ;  and 
he  could  have  felt  an  exquisite  pleasure  in  their  sufferings 
and  death. 

But  he  sorely  missed  the  excitement  of  the  stock-gam- 
bler of  Wall  Street;  of  the  heavy  commission -merchant, 
whose  daily  gains  or  losses  amounted  to  thousands  of  dol- 
lars ;  of  the  large  dealer  in  real  estate,  who  doubled  his 
capital  every  two  or  three  years ;  and  in  all  these  callings 
Finch  remembered  to  his  cost  that  he  had  been  an  expert 
and  a  power.  Though  cold  and  selfish  to  the  core  (as  the 
reader  already  knows),  he  sadly  missed,  too,  the  yachting 
parties  and  the  horse  racing,  together  with  the  general 
dissipation  incident  to  life  in  a  great  city  like  Xew  York. 
The  craving  to  return  almost  crazed  him ;  it  haunted  him 
day  and  night ;  he  would  dream  that  there  were  high,  im- 
passable mountains  between  him  and  this  paradise  of  his 
hopes;  and  on  the  summits  of  these  mountains  he  would 
fancy  that  he  saw  Jenny  Edwards  and  his  other  victims 
standing  with  flaming  swords  to  bar  his  passage.  Out  of 
one  of  these  dreams,  which  were  always  superinduced  by 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  183 

deep  drinking,  he  would  awake  in  a  fright,  with  the  cold 
perspiration  streaming  down  his  flabby  face.  By -and -by 
he  began  to  fear  that  New  York  was  as  impossible  to  him 
as  the  moon.  But  reach  New  York  he  must,  or  die  in  the 
attempt.  His  finances  were  reduced  to  fifty  dollars,  but  he 
still  had  his  wardrobe  and  his  jewellery,  and  these  he  could 
dispose  of  for  about  one-fourth  of  their  value. 

As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  walk  with  some  degree  of  en- 
durance, he  started  on  foot  for  Callao,  the  nearest  port 
where  he  would  be  likely  to  find  a  vessel  bound  for  the 
"United  States.  He  was  afraid  to  expend  a  cent  of  the  lit- 
tle money  which  remained ;  he  lived  on  the  meanest  food 
and  slept  in  the  lowest  hovels.  But,  unfortunately  for 
him,  no  ship  appeared.  Day  after  day  Finch  waited  and 
watched,  starved  himself  to  save  his  passage -money,  and 
lived  almost  entirely  on  the  single  glass  of  bad  brandy 
which  had  now  become  necessary  to  his  existence.  But  in 
spite  of  everything,  his  money,  his  trinkets,  and  his  wife's 
jewellery,  which  he  had  stolen,  were  all  gone,  and  still  no 
ship  came  to  take  him  away  from  the  accursed  country. 
Had  he  been  willing,  he  was  unable  to  work.  In  fact,  the 
once  "  merchant-prince  "  was  obliged  to  beg  his  bit  of  bread 
and  his  glass  of  brandy  in  the  public  streets  of  Callao ;  and 
such  was  the  vile  nature  of  the  man  that  he  cursed  in  his 
heart  alike  those  who  gave  and  those  who  refused. 

Finch  became  a  fearful  spectacle ;  his  clothes  became 
ragged  and  dirty,  his  face  red  and  swollen,  and  his  broken 
nose  grew  scorbutic  and  out  of  all  shape.  His  delicate 
hands  —  delicate  though  dirty  —  trembled,  and  his  weak 
limbs  shook  beneath  the  weight  of  his  dropsical  body.  In 
this  condition  he  daily  begged  alms  at  the  hotels  and  gam- 
bling-houses ;  but  he  was  not  a  smiling,  he  was  a  scowling 
beggar.  He  begged  ungraciously ;  and  he  hated  the  whole 
race  of  man  with  a  diabolic  hatred.  Notwithstanding  all 
these  things,  the  brain  of  Myron  Finch  remained  uninjured  ; 
for  the  intellectual  part  of  him  had  been  originally  of  the 
best  material.  As  he  scanned  his  features  in  the  looking- 
glasses  of  the  hotels  and  restaurants  in  which  he  plied  his 
vocation  as  public  pauper,  he  saw  how  completely  changed 


184  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

he  was,  and  rejoiced  in  the  fact,  because  he  knew  that  if  he 
ever  reached  New  York,  his  most  intimate  companion  would 
fail  to  recognize  him.  As  he  wandered  along  the  streets 
and  docks  of  the  city,  he  reflected  that  a  soa-voyage  would 
improve  his  health,  and  that  he  had  ability  to  carve  out  an- 
other fortune  if  he  could  only  get  back  to  New  York. 

At  last  a  ship  touched  at  Callao  bound  for  the  Empire 
City.  Finch,  who  was  never  at  a  loss  for  resources,  went 
boldly  to  the  captain  and  told  a  dismal  story  of  shipwreck, 
and  of  being  picked  up  by  a  Spanish-American  vessel.  When 
rescued  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  dying  of  thirst  and 
hunger ;  and  he  had  lost  everything  but  the  ragged  clothes 
which  he  then  wore.  He  begged  hard  for  a  passage  to  the 
United  States ;  told  the  captain  that  he  would  work  as 
cook  or  waiter,  and  that  he  would  perform  any  duty  that 
might  be  assigned  to  him.  The  captain,  though  doubting 
the  truth  of  his  story,  took  compassion  on  him,  and  gave 
him  permission  to  work  his  passage  home. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"  0  Love !  thou  sternly  dost  thy  power  maintain, 
And  wilt  not  bear  a  rival  in  thy  reign ; 
Tyrants  and  thee  all  fellowship  disdain." — DRYDEN. 

GEORGE  BAILEY  had  resumed  his  position  in  the  bank- 
ing-house of  AVarrenton,  Wilde  &  Co. ;  and  although  his 
salary  had  been  largely  increased,  and  although  he  was  now 
a  tried,  trusted,  and  respected  clerk,  the  favorite  of  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Wilde,  and  his  son's  beloved  friend,  often  invited  to 
dine  at  their  house,  and  always  an  honored  guest,  he  still 
remained  at  his  humble  lodgings  in  the  house  of  his  first 
and  firmest  friend,  John  Grady.  Bailey  seemed  to  shun  all 
society  except  that  of  the  AVildcs  and  the  few  friends  whom 
he  met  at  Grady's  house.  He  had  also  resumed  the  habit 
of  going  every  Sunday  to  the  church  which  Edith  WTilde 
attended.  Sometimes,  when  leaving,  Bailey  and  she  ex- 
changed bows  or  shook  hands,  and  she  always  gave  him  the 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  185 

sweetest  of  smiles.  The  touch  of  her  slender  fingers,  as  be- 
fore stated,  thrilled  his  frame  for  a  week.  To  say  that  he 
loved  her  would  but  faintly  express  his  feelings;  he  wor- 
shipped her  as  the  personification  of  goodness ;  and  her 
image  was  ever  present  to  his  mind  as  that  of  his  "  guardi- 
an angel."  She  was  too  good,  too  high,  too  holy,  he  thought, 
for  him  ever  to  aspire  to  her  hand  in  marriage.  The  thought 
of  ever  telling  her  of  his  love  was,  in  his  estimation,  the 
very  height  of  absurdity,  and  appeared,  indeed,  a  kind  of 
sacrilege :  as  well  make  love  to  one  of  God's  holy  angels. 

Bailey  became  a  great  reader.  The  Bible  and  Shakspeare 
were  his  favorite  authors.  The  book  of  Job  he  had  read 
twenty  times  through ;  and  the  plays  of  Hamlet,  Othello, 
and  Richard  the  Second  had  a  peculiar  charm  for  him.  All 
the  bad  characters,  all  the  villains,  became  simply  so  many 
types  of  Myron  Finch ;  all  the  sweet  and  lovely  women  be- 
came representatives  of  Edith  Wilde,  only  they  were  not  quite 
up  to  his  idea  of  the  lovely  Edith ;  she  excelled  them  all. 

While  Bailey  could  talk  well  and  intelligently  on  most 
subjects  in  a  mixed  company — for  his  thoughts,  like  those 
of  men  who  have  suffered  much  and  meditated  long  in  soli- 
tude, were  very  striking  and  sometimes  profound — in  Edith 
Wilde's  presence  he  found  himself  silent  and  embarrassed. 
When  Walter  Wilde  would  commence  at  the  dinner- table, 
for  the  twentieth  time,  to  tell  their  adventures  on  the  raft, 
and  to  narrate  in  glowing  language  the  courage  and  self- 
denial  of  Bailey,  he,  Bailey,  would  endeavor  to  silence  him 
or  change  the  subject.  To  Edith  the  story  was  ever  new 
and  always  charming.  In  all  sweet  and  womanly  ways 
Edith  endeavored  to  make  Bailey  feel  at  ease  and  at  home 
in  their  house.  But  in  spite  of  this,  and  in  spite  of  her 
knowledge  of  his  heart  and  her  own,  a  singular  sort  of 
estrangement  arose,  or  rather  grew,  imperceptibly  between 
them.  She  was  afraid  of  transgressing  the  bounds  of  maid- 
enly modesty,  and  he  was  in  dread  that  she  might  discover 
the  nature  of  his  feelings  and  be  offended  at  his  audacity. 
He  turned  almost  sick  at  the  bare  idea  of  the  ex-convict, 
who  had  spent  ten  years  in  prison,  the  companion  of  thieves 
and  burglars,  aspiring  to  the  hand  of  the  rich  banker's  daugh- 


186  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

ter — the  peerless  Edith.  Had  she  been  very  poor,  oh,  how 
he  would  love  to  toil  for  her!  And  Edith  thoroughly  com- 
prehended his  modesty,  his  delicacy,  his  patience,  and  his 
self-denial ;  but  she  could  make  no  advances  while  he  held 
his  feelings  in  such  complete  subjection.  His  profound  re- 
spect for  her  character  only  added  fuel  to  her  love. 

Bailey's  large  salary  was  far  more  than  enough  for  his 
support ;  and  while  saving  half  of  it,  he  managed  to  expend 
the  greater  part  of  the  other  half  on  the  household  of  John 
Grady,  whose  Weekly  Reformer  was  not  in  a  very  thriving 
condition.  His  studies  and  his  love  kept  his  mind  and  his 
heart  in  a  healthy  state;  for  there  is  no  better  moral  pre- 
servative than  a  pure  and  holy  love.  Be  it  for  sister,  or 
mother,  or  for  one  nearer  and  dearer  still,  the  wholesome 
and  refining  influence  of  unselfish  love  is  far  above  all  hom- 
ilies and  sermons.  Love  is  a  grand  poem.  It  beautifies  and 
enlarges  to  sublimity  whatever  it  touches.  True  love  is  true 
poetry,  because  it  creates,  and  combines  the  real  with  the 
unreal.  Even  the  heart  of  the  peasant  who  loves  purely  is 
full  of  unutterable  poetry;  and,  had  he  the  power  of  ex- 
pression, he  could  sing  his  feelings  to  the  streams,  the  trees, 
and  the  flowers  like  a  Petrarch  or  a  Burns.  To  the  true, 
pure  lover  the  sky  is  bluer,  the  grass  greener,  the  flowers 
brighter,  the  brooks  clearer,  the  song  of  birds  sweeter,  and 
all  earth  grander  and  holier  for  this  very  love  which  perme- 
ates and  thrills  every  fibre  of  his  being;  and  man  himself, 
the  last  and  noblest  creation  of  God,  appears  in  a  new  light, 
and  wears  an  aspect  of  dignity  hitherto  unfelt  and  unseen. 
Such  a  love  was  Bailey's.  It  even  softened  his  heart  to- 
ward Myron  Finch,  and  caused  him  to  turn  aside  for  fear 
of  treading  out  the  life  of  a  poor  worm. 

One  Sunday,  Mr.  Wilde  at  the  church  door  asked  George 
Bailey  home  for  an  early  dinner.  Of  course  the  invitation 
was  accepted ;  and  naturally  Edith  and  Bailey  walked  to- 
gether a  little  in  the  rear  of  Mr.  Wilde  and  Walter.  Their 
conversation  was  commonplace  —  about  the  weather,  the 
service,  the  sermon — and  the  lovers  felt  a  certain  constraint, 
to  each  almost  inexplicable. 

About  one  hundred  yards  behind  them,  and  on  the  oppo- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  187 

site  side  of  the  street,  Bailey  and  Edith  were  closely  and 
carefully  watched  by  a  lady,  who  had  not  missed  being  at 
her  post  of  espionage,  within  half  a  street  of  the  church  en- 
trance, since  the  h'rst  Sunday  after  the  return  of  George 
Bailey  to  New  York.  She  had  managed  to  elude  observa- 
tion, and  she  had  invariably  covered  her  face  with  a  thick 
veil.  Authors  are,  of  course,  privileged  to  know  everything, 
even  the  private  thoughts  of  their  characters ;  and  hence 
we  shall  take  the  liberty  of  revealing  the  thoughts  of  Mrs. 
Myron  Finch,  now  a  free  woman,  she  having  obtained  her 
divorce  from  her  worthy  husband.  First,  it  may  be  stated 
that  the  lady  in  question,  ever  since  the  day  that  she  shook 
off  the  yoke  of  her  brutal  helpmate — that  is,  since  the  day 
he  struck  her — had  grown  active,  unscrupulous,  and  selfish. 
She  had  not  been  in  close  contact  with  Finch  for  ten  or 
twelve  years  without  suffering  from  the  contamination  of 
his  very  presence.  There  are  some  people  who  impart  a 
moral  poison  as  readily  as  others  do  the  germs  of  varioloid 
or  scarlet-fever ;  and  Mr.  Myron  Finch  was  one  of  these. 
He  insensibly  corrupted  his  companions,  for  he  was  mor- 
ally rotten ;  and  poor,  weak,  proud,  foolish  Grace  Van  Hess, 
under  the  influence  of  Finch,  degenerated  into  a  cowardly, 
selfish,  passive  creature,  until  her  old  love  was  revived,  or 
called  into  activity,  by  the  culmination  of  her  husband's 
brutality.  But  perhaps  it  is  better  to  reveal  her  character 
in  her  thoughts : 

"How  I  hate  that  white- faced  creature  !  What  right  has 
she  to  his  love?  Every  Sunday  I  torture  myself  by  watch- 
ing them.  Oh,  I  could  poison  her !  He  is  mine  :  he  was 
engaged  to  me.  Oh,  my  God !  why,  why  did  I  not 
stand  by  him  ?  I  could  have  unravelled  that  plot  and  sent 
Finch  to  prison.  How  she  smiles  on  him  !  I  do  hate  her ! 
Oh,  I  would  give  my  heart's  best  blood  for  that  look  of 
love  which  he  has  just  thrown  away  on  that  poor  chit  of  a 
thing !  How  I  love  him,  love  him,  love  him  !  For  one 
week  of  his  love  I  would  freely  die !  But  she  must  not 
have  him,  and  she  shall  not.  I  will  shoot  him  first,  even  if 
I  hang  for  it !  No,  no ;  I  must  put  jealousy  between  them 
— separate  them.  I  must  think,  think,  think  !" 


188  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

So  Myron  Finch  has  taught  Grace  how  to  think ;  and 
see  how  wickedly  strong  her  evil  passion  has  made  her. 
She  paused  at  the  street  in  which  Mr.  Wilde  lived,  and  nev- 
er took  her  eyes  off  Bailey  and  Edith  until  they  disappear- 
ed within  the  hall-door. 

Among  the  visitors  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Wilde  was  an  old 
school-mate  of  Walter's,  Henry  Fawcett,  who  had  just  re- 
turned from  a  three  years'  residence  in  Europe.  Like  many 
young  Americans  -whose  fathers  have  grown  rich  in  trade, 
he  was  ashamed  of  the  business  to  which  he  was  indebted 
for  his  education,  his  station  in  society,  and  the  means  to  in- 
dulge in  foreign  travel.  Nay,  further,  he  was  ashamed  of 
the  institutions  which  had  destroyed  the  castes  of  the  Old 
World,  and  had  enabled  his  father  to  rise  from  the  station 
he  was  born  in — that  of  a  peddler  of  vegetables — to  be  a 
railroad  manager  and  a  heavy  speculator  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change. Mr.  Henry  Fawcett  aped  the  manners  of  the 
youthful  aristocracy  of  England,  and  thought  it  the  fash- 
ionable thing  to  condemn  universal  suffrage,  and  to  advo- 
cate the  establishment  of  a  limited  monarchy  modelled  after 
the  plan  of  the  "  mauther  "  country,  as  he  was  pleased  to 
term  Great  Britain.  This  young  man,  with  his  recently  ac- 
quired English  drawl,  was  not  deficient  in  brains,  nor  in  a 
certain  "smartness"  of  repartee, which  sometimes  made  his 
conversation,  if  not  instructive,  at  least  amusing.  He  had 
ability  enough  to  cull  out  the  defects  in  the  American  sys- 
tem, and  to  extol  whatever  he  found  superior  in  the  Euro- 
pean. He  had  sense  enough,  too,  to  perceive  that  Edith 
Wilde  would  adorn  any  position  in  life,  and  that  she  would 
inherit  the  fortune  of  a  princess. 

Henry  Fawcett  had  become  a  frequent  visitor  at  Mr. 
Wilde's  house ;  and  it  was  soon  observed  that  Edith  was 
the  attraction.  Whatever  notions  Walter  had  formed, 
•when  hovering  between  life  and  death  on  the  raft,  of  Bai- 
ley's love  for  his  sister,  they  soon  died  out  after  his  return 
to  New  York ;  and  as  for  Mr.  William  Wilde,  he  had  never 
dreamed  for  one  moment  of  a  marriage  between  his  beloved 
child  and  a  penniless  ex-convict,  however  high-minded  his 
conduct  might  prove  him  to  be.  Although  not  a  syllable 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  189 

had  ever  been  uttered  in  regard  to  Mr.  Fawcett's  attentions 
to  Edith,  it  was  tacitly  understood  by  both  father  and 
brother  that  he  was  a  suitor  for  her  hand.  As  for  Edith 
herself,  she  never  once  imagined  that  Mr.  Fawcett  had  any 
other  motive  in  calling  than  the  society  of  his  former  friend 
and  school-fellow,  Walter. 

It  had  so  happened  recently,  that  every  time  Bailey  had 
called  at  Mr.  Wilde's  house,  he  had  found  Fawcett  there  a 
welcome  guest.  The  ease,  the  elegance,  the  dash,  the  flip- 
pancy, the  cynicism  of  this  young  man  were  a  strong  con- 
trast in  all  respects  to  the  bearing,  the  manners,  and  the 
general  character  of  George  Bailey.  Fawcett  termed  Bai- 
ley a  "cad" — a  flash  word  which  he  had  imported,  like  the 
cut  of  his  trousers,  from  the  "  mauther  "  country — and  this 
in  the  hearing  of  Edith,  whose  only  reply  was  a  frown  and 
a  look  of  extreme  displeasure,  which  the  young  man  re- 
membered for  a  week.  In  fact,  Bailey  and  Fawcett  dis- 
liked each  other  intensely.  Edith  very  quickly  perceived 
that  Henry  Fawcett's  presence  inflicted  great  pain  on  her 
lover;  and  for  this  reason  she  avoided  him,  Fawcett,  as 
much  as  good-breeding  and  the  laws  of  hospitality  would 
permit.  If  Mr.  Fawcett  should  propose,  she  would  send 
him  about  his  business  in  short  order;  nor  would  the 
young  man  break  his  heart  at  a  refusal.  If  Bailey  would 
propose,  her  acceptance  would  end  his  jealousy  and  make 
him  a  happy  man.  It  distressed  her  exceedingly  to  know 
that  her  lover  suffered,  and  she  did  all  in  her  power  to  show 
him  that  she  sympathized  with  him. 

On  one  occasion,  when  Bailey  and  Fawcett  were  present, 
the  conversation  turned  upon  the  relative  merits  of  American 
and  European  society,  laws,  and  institutions;  and  Mr.  Fawcett, 
as  usual,  favored  everything  belonging  to  the  Old  World. 

"Society,"  said  Mr.  Fawcett,  "in  England  is  divided 
into  castes,  almost  as  unyielding  and  unchangeable  as  those 
of  India,  so  that  the  son  of  a  shoemaker  cannot  aspire  to 
rise  above  his  father's  position  in  life,  nor  can  he  hope  to 
associate  with  the  son  of  a  physician ;  nor  can  the  son  of  a 
physician  expect  to  meet  on  equal  terms  the  son  of  a  noble- 
man. This  is  as  it  ought  to  be  everywhere." 


190  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"Then,"  replied  Bailey,  with  some  asperity  of  tone, 
"  Washington,  the  greatest  uninspired  man  the  world  has 
ever  known,  should  have  lived  and  died  a  country  surveyor ; 
and  Lincoln,  who  will  rank  next  to  Washington,  according 
to  your  theory  of  castes,  should  have  remained  a  rail-splitter 
and  a  river  boatman." 

The  word  "  boatman  "  had  smitten  hard  on  the  ear  of 
young  Fawcett,  for  his  father  had  commenced  life  boating 
vegetables  from  Staten  Island  to  the  city  of  New  York ; 
and  if  his  own  theory  were  good  for  anything,  it  would 
have  doomed  him  to  the  society  of  common  sailors  all  his 
life,  instead  of  associating,  as  he  did  now,  with  Bailey  and 
Wilde,  who  were  born  in  the  purple.  Bailey's  allusion  to 
Mr.  Lincoln  was  purely  accidental,  but  Fawcett  thought 
otherwise,  and  took  it  as  a  personal  insult.  He  so  far  for- 
got himself  as  to  say, 

"  I  beg  pawdon  ;  but,  aw,  such-aw-remawks  are  moah  ap- 
wopo  at-aw-demoquatic  wad  meeting,  among  the-aw-vulgaw 
Irish  and  Germans." 

The  cool  insolence  of  Fawcett,  and  the  abominable  drawl 
in  which  he  spoke,  aroused  the  wrath  of  Bailey,  who  replied, 

"  Mr.  Fawcett,  my  remarks  are  true,  if  trite ;  and  since  I 
am  not  at  a  ward  meeting,  and  since  I  am  not  a  politician, 
seeking  favors  from  Irish  and  German  voters,  allow  me  to 
say  that  your  remarks  were  uncalled  for  and  wholly  irrele- 
vant." 

"  In-deed !  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  Fawcett,  "  in-deed  I  did  not 
intend  to  have  any  discussion  with  you." 

Whenever  Fawcett  became  angry,  he  ceased  his  drawl, 
his  aws,  and  his  hesitation,  and  spoke  in  quick,  curt  Ameri- 
can fashion,  which  was  unmistakable,  like  the  fine  emphasis 
which  he  now  threw  on  the  word  you. 

"  And  why  not  with  me,  sir  ?"  demanded  Bailey,  a  slight 
flush  overspreading  his  usually  pale  features. 

"Well,  sir,  I  would  rather  not  discuss -aw -aw"  (in- 
solently returning  to  his  drawl)  "  pubwick  affairahs  with 

7/OW." 

"  I  would  like  to  know,"  asked  Bailey,  "  why  you  do  not 
desire  to  discuss  public  affairs  with  me  ?" 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  191 

Mr.  Wilde  interposed,  thinking  it  high  time  to  put  an 
end  to  the  altercation.  He  simply  said,  "Gentlemen,  we 
must  all  agree  to  differ;  we  have  our  fixed  opinions  on 
many  subjects,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  we  should  quar- 
rel. Let  us  change  the  subject."  And  so  the  conversation 
turned  to  matters  which  caused  Mr.  Wilde  to  be  the  princi- 
pal speaker. 

Bailey  and  Fawcett  disliked  each  other  even  more  intense- 
ly than  before,  for  each  imagined  that  the  other  had  covert- 
ly stabbed  him  in  a  tender  place.  The  former  was  unduly 
sensitive  about  his  conviction  for  forgery,  and  fancied  that 
for  that  reason  the  latter  had  declined  a  discussion  with 
him. 

Edith  was  thoroughly  distressed.  She  had  learned  to 
read  every  thought  in  the  heart  of  Bailey  by  the  expression 
of  his  face,  and  she  failed  not  to  perceive  how  deeply  he 
was  wounded.  How  she  longed  to  console  the  sad,  lonely 
man,  and  by  womanly  tenderness  to  make  amends  for  the 
wrongs  and  sufferings  of  his  youth  and  early  manhood ! 
Fawcett  was  a  conceited  bore,  in  her  estimation,  and  she 
wished  him  a  thousand  miles  away  from  her  father's 
house. 

Bailey  almost  vowed,  on  taking  his  leave,  to  refuse  all  in- 
vitations in  future,  and  never  again  to  enter  the  house ;  for 
during  the  entire  afternoon  and  evening  he  had  been  very 
unhappy,  and  consumed  by  a  jealousy  which  would  drive 
him  mad.  He  would  continue  to  love  Edith  in  the  solitude 
of  his  chamber ;  and  he  would  endeavor  to  see  her  every 
Sunday,  and  feast  his  eyes  on  her  good  and  beautiful  face. 
All  thought  or  jealousy  of  Fawcett  he  would  expel  from  his 
mind ;  he  would  fall  back  on  the  past,  as  a  refuge  from  the 
present,  and  think  only  of  his  "  guardian  angel,"  who  had 
succored  his  mother  and  himself  in  the  darkest  hour  of  his 
distress.  In  this  frame  of  mind  he  reached  his  humble 
lodgings  in  the  home  of  John  Grady.  But  what  was  his 
astonishment  to  find  a  note  for  him,  written  in  a  hand 
which  was  curiously  familiar,  and  which  he  could  not  re- 
call. He  looked  for  the  signature,  but  name  there  was 
none.  The  note  ran  as  follows : 


192  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  MR.  GEO.  BAILEY, — You  are  grossly  deceived :  you  de- 
ceive yourself.  Miss  Wilde  esteems  you  as  a  friend,  noth- 
ing more.  She  loves  Mr.  Henry  Fawcett.  They  are  engaged, 
or  soon  will  be.  He  is  rich ;  you  are  poor.  Don't  be  so 
foolish  as  to  think  Mr.  Wilde  would  permit  his  daughter 
to  marry  you.  Excuse  an  anonymous  note,  but  necessity 
forces  me  to  remain  your  unknown  FRIEND." 

Bailey  read  this  precious  note  over  half  a  dozen  times, 
and  each  time  he  came  very  near  detecting  the  strangely 
familiar  handwriting.  Evidently  it  was  partially  disguised 
by  slanting  the  letters  toward  the  left,  making  it  what  is 
sometimes  termed  back-handed  writing.  He  was  too  wise 
a  man  to  pay  attention  to  an  anonymous  letter ;  and  in  an 
ordinary  case  of  business,  or  even  in  his  usual  state  of  mind, 
he  would  have  cast  it  into  the  fire ;  but  now,  in  his  present 
agitated  condition,  it  affected  him  exceedingly,  because  the 
tenor  of  the  note  bore  directly  on  the  nature  and  tendency 
of  his  own  thoughts. 

He  refolded  the  note  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  For  hours 
afterward  he  sat  gazing  into  the  fire,  a  thoroughly  miserable 
man.  He  regretted  that  he  had  not  died  on  the  raft.  He 
might  then  have  sent  Edith  a  message  of  love,  just  as  he 
was  leaving  this  world  to  meet  his  mother  in  a  better.  That 
night  he  dreamed  that  he  and  Edith  Wilde  were  on  board 
the  raft,  and  that  one  of  the  hungry  sailors  who  wanted  to 
kill  and  eat  her  was — not  the  Portuguese,  but  Mr.  Henry 
Fawcett ! 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"  The  animal  with  long  ears,  after  having  drunk,  gives  a  kick  to  the 
bucket." — From  the  Italian. 

IT  was  a  delightful  afternoon  in  the  season  of  the  Indian 
summer.  The  sky  was  a  deep  blue,  streaked  here  and  there 
with  purple  clouds,  behind  which  could  be  seen  many  a  del- 
icate tint,  to  which  no  artist's  brush  could  ever  do  full  jus- 
tice. The  sun  was  slowly  sinking  toward  the  south-west, 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  193 

and  there  was  a  roseate  tinge  in  his  rays  which  cast  a  mel- 
low beauty  on  all  they  touched. 

On  the  afternoon  in  question  a  dirty,  bloated,  red-faced 
man,  clad  in  a  ragged,  greasy  suit  of  clothes,  which  had  once 
been  fashionable,  might  have  been  seen  slowly  walking  up 
Third  Avenue,  in  the  city  of  New  York,  and  carefully  ex- 
amining, with  weak,  watery  eyes,  the  sign-boards  of  all  the 
corner  groggeries  which  he  passed.  His  gait  was  uncertain 
and  shambling,  his  knees  seemed  to  tremble  beneath  his 
weight,  and  he  walked  like  a  man  whose  feet  were  very 
sore.  As  he  raised  his  hand  to  shade  his  eyes  from  the 
rays  of  the  sinking  sun,  it  might  have  been  noticed  that 
that  hand  was  comparatively  white  and  delicately  formed, 
and  that  it  had  never  been  accustomed  to  heavy  manual 
labor,  llis  hair  was  long  and  unkempt,  of  a  dirty  dry 
brown,  and  hung  in  straggling  locks  down  his  neck  and 
cheeks.  His  face  was  covered  with  a  beard  of  about  two 
weeks'  growth ;  and  if  he  wore  any  linen  it  was  completely 
hidden  by  a  red  "  muffler,"  like  those  worn  by  sailors  in 
severe  weather.  Altogether  he  was  a  most  wretched-look- 
ing tramp.  As  he  carefully  scanned  the  sign-boards  his 
lips  moved  as  if  uttering  imprecations,  and  the  expression 
of  his  hard,  cruel  face  was  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  look  at. 
He  had  painfully  pursued  his  weary  way  up  as  far  as  Thir- 
tieth Street,  but  had  not  been  able  to  discover  the  name 
which  he  wanted.  He  had  already  been  at  a  groggery  near 
the  East  River,  having  ascertained  the  address  from  a  direc- 
tory, but  his  toilsome  journey  had  been  in  vain,  for  the  per- 
son of  whom  he  wras  in  quest  had  moved  up  town  on  the 
first  of  May  last.  The  patience  of  the  tramp  was  almost 
exhausted,  as,  after  searching  the  sign -boards  of  all  the 
"wine-merchants"  once  more,  he  muttered  to  himself,  "It 
must  be  somewhere  about  here  that  the  infernal  scoundrel 
holds  forth  and  retails  his  poisons.  Let  me  see — Thirtieth 
Street,  Fortieth  Street,  Fiftieth  Street —  How  tired  I  am  ! 
Not  a  cent — not  one  red  cent !"  And  here  the  poor  wretch 
swore  some  oaths  which  it  is  better  to  suppress.  "  How 
tired  and  foot-sore  I  am  !  I  am  dying  for  a  glass  of  brandy. 
I  wonder  if  one  of  these  cursed  Irishmen  would  give  me  a 

13 


194  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

glass  of  whiskey  ?  The  last  place  I  tried  the  brute  of  a 
barkeeper  threatened  to  kick  me  out  for  disgracing  his 
place,  and  called  me  thief  and  tramp." 

"  Say,  Boss,"  addressing  a  young  man  with  a  clear, 
healthy  face,  who  had  evidently  avoided  his  own  poisonous 
compounds — "  say,  Boss,  for  God's  sake  give  me  a  glass  of 
liquor?  I  am  weak,  and  dying  for  the  want  of  a  little 
stimulant." 

The  young  man  eyed  him  for  a  moment,  and  noted  his 
hands,  and  clothes  of  fashionable  cut,  though  greasy  and  in 
tatters.  After  a  pause  of  a  minute  or  two  he  replied, 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  :  it  seems  to  me  that  you  have  seen 
better  days,  old  man.  I  suppose  you  would  like  '  a  hair  of 
the  dog  that  bit  you.'  What  'ud  you  like  ?" 

"  Anything  strong — the  stronger  the  better,"  replied  the 
tramp. 

The  young  man  handed  him  a  decanter  containing  a 
liquid  labelled  "Jamaica  Rum,"  which  the  tramp  seized  with 
an  eager,  trembling  hand,  and  lifting  a  tumbler  in  the  other 
hand,  poured  out  a  very  large  quantity  for  a  single  drink 
— so  large,  indeed,  that  the  generous  youth  was  forced  to 
say,  "  See  here,  old  man,  haven't  you  taken  a  leetle  more 
than's  good  for  you  ?" 

To  this  remark  the  tramp  made  no  reply ;  but  looking 
at  the  glass  with  a  gleam  in  his  watery  eye  as  ardent  as  the 
liquor  itself,  he  drank  off  the  whole  of  it  in  a  single  gulp. 
Its  fiery  strength  caused  the  tears  to  roll  down  his  dirty, 
flabby  cheeks,  and  made  him  smack  his  lips  as  if  the  poi- 
son had  been  the  very  elixir  of  life.  It  was  a  very  painful 
sight  to  see  this  man  vainly  trying  to  hide  with  his  fingers 
the  double  quantity  of  rum  which  he  intended  to  take. 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  tramp,  "  do  you  know  a  man  in 
your  line  named  Timothy  Quin  ?" 

"Do  I  know  Tim  Quin?  Why,  this  is  one  of  Quin's 
stores :  he  has  half  a  dozen  stores  like  this.  But  he  is  not 
now  in  the  retail  trade ;  he  manifacters." 

"  Distils,  you  mean,"  said  the  tramp. 

"  I  mane  what  I  say — he  manifacters." 

"  Manufactures  what  ?" 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  195 

"  Manifacters  everythin'  drinkable,  even  that  Jamakey  that 
you've  just  drunk,"  replied  the  temperate  youth. 

"  Do  you  never  drink  anything  yourself  f  asked  the 
tramp,  now  comfortably  seated  on  the  head  of  a  whiskey- 
cask,  and  expecting  to  be  asked  to  take  another  drink. 

"  No,  sir-e-e !  Catch  me  drinkin'  poisons !  They  are 
very  good  to  sell — very  profitable,  do  ye  see — but  very  bad, 
as  the  doctors  say,  for  digesching." 

"Does  Quin  drink,  himself?"  inquired  the  tramp. 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course,"  replied  the  young  man  ;  "  but  out 
of  private  bottles  of  genuwine  liquor.  He  don't  drink  sich 
stuff  as  this." 

"  Is  Quin  very  rich  ?"  asked  the  tramp. 

"  Now  see  here,  old  man,  you're  mighty  smart ;  you'd 
better  clear  out  before  our  reg'lar  customers  begin  to  come." 

"  Boss,"  said  the  tramp,  in  a  wheedling  tone,  "  couldn't 
you  give  a  poor  fellow  another  dose  of  that  poison — a  poor 
fellow  who  would  like  to  end  his  sufferings  in  a  sea  of  good 
liquor  ?" 

The  young  bartender,  anxious  to  get  rid  of  the  disrepu- 
table tramp,  took  down  the  decanter  and  poured  out  a  very 
large  glass,  and  handing  it  to  the  tramp,  said, 

"  Here,  throw  this  down  your  throat  and  clear  out :  my 
customers  will  soon  'be  here." 

The  tramp  seized  the  glass,  scanned  it  with  one  eye  par- 
tially closed,  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur,  gloated  for  a 
moment  over  it,  as  if  prolonging  the  pleasure  by  a  little  an- 
ticipation, and  then  swallowed  it,  as  before,  without  water 
and  in  a  single  gulp.  The  tramp  leaned  his  elbow  on  the 
bar,  slowly  laid  the  glass  down  without  removing  his  dirty 
fingers  from  it,  and  with  a  half-drunken,  cunning  leer,  said, 

"  Young  man,  you  had  better  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your 
head,  for  I  know  your  master  well ;  he  is  a  very  old  friend 
of  mine ;  he  was  once  my  servant— do  you  hear  ?  He  was 
once  my  servant.  And  what  are  you  ?  Nothing  but  a  mis- 
erable Irish  rum  seller.  If  you  don't  hand  me  out  another 
glass  of  that  poison,  I'll  tell  my  friend  Quin  how  you  have 
characterized  his  noble  business  of  distilling." 

At  first  the  voung  man  was  lost  in  amazement  at  the  in- 


196  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

gratitude,  and  then  he  grew  angry  at  the  insolence,  of  the 
filthy  wretch  whom  he  had  condescended  to  notice.  Plac- 
ing his  hand  lightly  on  the  bar,  and  vaulting  over  it  with 
ease,  he  seized  the  tramp  by  the  collar  of  his  greasy  coat, 
and  administering  to  him  several  severe  kicks,  hurled  him 
headlong  into  the  street. 

"  There  now,  ye  ungrateful  cur,  take  that  for  yer  impi- 
dence !" 

Muttering  horrid  imprecations  in  a  half-drunken  under- 
tone, the  tramp  picked  himself  up  as  best  he  could,  and  was 
endeavoring  to  make  his  escape  through  the  crowd,  which 
seemed  to  spring  out  of  the  sidewalk  at  the  noise  of  the 
row,  when  a  policeman  came  to  his  rescue,  or  that  might 
have  been  the  last  of  Myron  Finch  (for  such  was  the  tramp, 
as  the  reader  has  long  ago  seen) ;  for  the  bartender  had 
explained  to  the  crowd  the  tramp's  abuse  of  the  Irish  peo- 
ple, and  this  is  something  that  the  Irish  do  not  readily  con- 
done or  forgive. 

The  policeman  had  no  excuse  for  arresting  Finch ;  for, 
though  half  drunk  as  to  his  limbs,  his  head  was  as  clear  as 
a  bell.  Finch  wandered  on  and  on,  examining  the  signs,  by 
the  aid  of  the  gas-light,  for  the  name  of  Timothy  Quin, 
"  wine  -  merchant."  Finally,  after  walking  about  a  mile 
north  of  the  scene  of  his  encounter  with  the  temperate 
rumseller,  he  espied  a  man  alighting  from  a  wagon,  whom 
he  instantly  recognized  as  his  former  confederate  in  crime. 
For  fear  he  might  lose  sight  of  him  in  the  darkness,  in  the 
house,  or  in  the  liquor-store,  Finch  ran  with  all  the  speed 
his  trembling  limbs  would  permit,  and  hailed  Mr.  Quin  as 
he  was  entering  the  "  store."  Quin  paused,  looked  care- 
fully around,  and  seeing  no  one  save  the  dirty,  ragged 
wretch  before  him,  he  accosted  him  in  no  very  pleasant 
tone  of  voice : 

"  Who  are  ye  ?  an'  what  do  ye  want  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  Mr.  Quin  ?  Look  closely  at  me : 
search  my  features — listen  to  my  voice — surely  you  know 
me?" 

Quin  examined  the  tramp  from  head  to  foot ;  he  glanced 
at  his  broken  nose,  his  red,  pimpled  face,  and  his  bloated 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  197 

body;  he  noticed  liis  trembling  hands;  but  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  store-window  he  failed  to  recognize  his  old  em- 
ployer. 

"  Walk  into  the  store,"  said  Finch,  "  and  see  if  you  can- 
not recognize  an  unfortunate  friend." 

The  two  men  walked  up  to  the  bar,  and  steadily  gazed  in 
each  other's  face ;  and  still  Quin  was  unable  to  trace  in  the 
face  and  form  of  the  wreck  before  him  the  once  dashing 
and  wealthy  Myron  Finch. 

"  Mr.  Quin,"  said  Finch,  "  if  you  have  no  objection,  I 
would  like  to  steady  my  nerves  with  a  glass  of  brandy,  for 
I  am  weak  and  hungry." 

Quin  eyed  the  ragged  tramp  uneasily,  and  failed  not  to 
catch  below  the  husky  voice  the  tone  and  language  of  a 
man  used  to  good  society — at  least,  of  a  man  who  had  re- 
ceived a  good  education.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  change 
of  voice  caused  by  the  inordinate  use  of  strong  drink, 
doubtless  Finch  would  have  been  recognized  in  a  moment. 
Quin  noticed  the  hands  of  the  tramp,  and  began  to  suspect 
a  detective ;  for  ever  since  the  capture  of  the  forgery-prac- 
tice papers  he  has  feared  arrest  as  particeps  criminis.  Quin, 
even  as  porter,  had  proved  himself  observant  and  cunning ; 
and  his  subsequent  training,  as  the  founder  of  rum-shops 
and  the  manager  of  political  societies,  had  sharpened  his 
wits  and  blunted  his  conscience.  He  had  grown  rich,  and 
as  his  wealth  increased  his  appetite  to  add  to  it  became 
voracious.  The  more  money  he  made  the  more  he  wanted  ; 
hence  his  attempt  two  years  ago  to  extort,  in  the  form  of 
black-mail,  a  very  large  sum  from  Finch.  While  Timothy 
Quin  was  pondering  over  these  matters,  Myron  Finch  was 
waiting  for  his  glass  of  brandy  to  steady  his  nerves. 

"  Mr.  Quin,"  repeated  Finch,  "  I  greatly  need  a  little 
liquor ;  for,  as  I  said  a  moment  ago,  I  am  both  weak  and 
hungry." 

Quin,  starting  out  of  a  reverie,  ordered  Patrick,  the  man 
behind  the  bar,  to  produce  his  best  brandy.  From  some 
hidden  recess  below  the  bar  Patrick  brought  forth  a  bottle 
of  genuine  imported  brandy,  which  was  always  kept  in  re- 
serve for  the  "  wine-merchant "  and  his  particular  friends. 


198  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Quin  took  little  more  than  a  thimbleful,  while  Finch  near- 
ly filled  a  large  tumbler,  which  he  drank  off  undiluted.  Ev- 
idently Timothy  Quin  was  resolved  to  bring  this  matter  to 
a  close ;  so,  with  sundry  oaths  which  we  take  the  liberty  of 
suppressing,  he  demanded, 

"  Now  that  you  have  had  your  skinful  of  good  liquor,  I 
want  to  know  who  ye  are  and  what  ye  want  ?" 

"  Mr.  Quin,"  said  Finch,  in  a  deprecatory  tone,  "  there  is 
a  back-room — can  you  not  step  in  there  and  hear  me  out  ? 
AVill  you  please  hear  my  story  in  private  ?" 

"  Now,  see  here ;  I  don't  know  what  right  ye  have  to  tell 
me  any  story.  I  don't  undherstan'  what  business  ye  can 
have  wid  me.  But  we  may  as  well  ind  it  here  an'  now ;  so 
step  in  here — we'll  be  alone." 

Finch  could  have  had  no  private  interview  with  Quin  had 
it  not  been  for  the  nameless  fear  of  a  detective,  already  al- 
luded to.  Quin  was  naturally  a  low-born  tyrant,  and  thor- 
oughly despised  rags  and  poverty ;  hence,  under  ordinary 
circumstances,  the  dirty  tramp  would  have  been  hustled 
head-foremost  out  of  the  "  store."  The  worthy  pair  now 
entered  the  little  back-room,  usually  devoted  to  gambling  on 
a  small  scale — to  "  forty-fives  "  for  drinks  all  round.  Finch 
carefully  closed  the  door,  and  then  took  his  seat  in  front  of 
Quin  at  the  little  round  gaming-table  which,  with  a  few 
wooden  chairs,  constituted  the  entire  furniture  of  the  room. 
There  were  two  or  three  very  cheap  pictures  of  prize-fight- 
ers, in  very  cheap  frames,  ornamenting  the  whitewashed 
walls.  Something  in  the  wary  closing  of  the  door,  some- 
thing in  the  stealthy  step,  albeit  a  little  shaky,  and  some- 
thing in  the  cunning  expression  of  the  pale,  watery  eyes, 
recalled  to  Quin's  mind  a  vague  recollection  of  some  one 
whom  he  had  known  before;  but  still  he  failed  to  place 
him — he  could  not  possibly  identify  him. 

Again  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  long  and  stead- 
ily. Finally  Finch  raised  his  torn  and  battered  felt  hat, 
revealing  a  brow  as  white  as  a  lady's — a  broad,  high  brow, 
which  seemed  to  have  escaped  the  general  ruin  of  the  re- 
mainder of  his  body.  The  contrast  between  the  upper  and 
lower  portions  of  his  head  and  face  was  startling. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  199 

"  Mr.  Quin,"  said  Finch,  after  removing  the  old  hat,  and 
with  a  voice  and  manner  quite  histrionic,  for  Finch  was 
nothing  if  not  a  first-class  hypocrite,  "  Mr.  Quin,  the  unfort- 
unate man  before  you  is — Myron  Finch  !" 

Finch  folded  his  arms  and  awaited  the  result.  All  Quin 
could  utter,  so  complete  was  his  amazement,  was, 

"  My  God  !  my  God !  Can  I  b'lieve  me  eyes  ?  You  Mis- 
ther  Finch  ?  you — you  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  know  me — you  know  me.  I  see  it  in  your 
eyes  that  you  recognize  me." 

"  How,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,"  said  Quin,  "  have  ye 
fallen  so  low  ?  Ye  must  have  taken  away  wid  ye  at  laste  a 
hundthred  tousand  dollars.  Where  has  the  money  gone  to  ?" 

"  It  would  be  a  long  story,"  replied  Finch, "  and  I  am 
not  in  a  fit  condition  to  tell  it  to-night.  Some  other  time 
I  shall  tell  you  all.  Suffice  it  now  that  I  felt  very  lonely 
among  strangers,  who  spoke  a  strange  language,  and  I  took 
to  drink  and  gambling.  I  was  fleeced  out  of  my  money, 
abused  and  beaten,  had  my  nose  broken,  as  you  may  sec, 
and  I  was  left  for  dead  at  my  hotel.  When  a  man  gam- 
bles, Mr.  Quin,  he  cannot  afford  to  drink;  I  drank  relying 
upon  my  ability  to  bear  it,  but  I  was  mistaken,  and  lost. 
The  more  I  lost  the  more  I  drank,  and  the  more  I  drank 
the  more  I  lost.  It  did  not  take  very  long  to  exhaust  my 
exchequer." 

"  Your  what  ?"  asked  Quin. 

"  My  money-bags.  In  fact,  I  found  myself  a  beggar  in 
Callao,  and  was  obliged,  after  much  solicitation,  to  work 
my  passage  to  New  York  as  assistant-steward  on  the  ship. 
Now  you  have  in  outline  my  misadventures  since  I  ab- 
sconded two  years  ago.  But  it  was  not  to  speak  of  these 
matters  that  I  called  to  see  you :  I  have  other  business." 

One  by  one  Quin  was  able  to  recall  the  features  of  his 
old  employer.  Timothy  was  not  a  man  of  very  nice  moral 
perceptions,  and  he  had  never  been  over-scrupulous  about 
his  methods  of  making  an  honest  penny ;  still,  he  was  not 
actually  cruel  by  nature,  like  Finch;  nor  was  he  deficient  in 
kindly  feeling,  if  it  did  not  mar  his  material  interests.  lie 
was  really  sorry  for  the  miserable  wreck  before  him.  1'er- 


200  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

haps  he  remembered  that  it  was  the  thousand  dollars  given 
him  by  Finch  for  his  aid  in  effecting  the  forgery  which 
gave  him,  Quin,  his  first  start  in  life  as  a  "  wine-merchant ;" 
or  perhaps  he  may  have  recollected  that  it  was  his  attempt 
to  levy  black-mail  which  was  the  beginning  of  Finch's  mis- 
fortunes ;  or,  being  vain  of  his  wealth  and  prosperity,  his 
vanity  may  have  been  gratified  at  patronizing  his  former 
master.  From  whatever  motive — and  it  may  have  been 
from  a  combination  of  motives — Quin  was  influenced,  he 
resolved  to  aid — judiciously,  of  course — Mr.  Myron  Finch 
to  get  on  his  legs  again. 

After  gazing  a  long  time  at  Finch  in  silence,  Quin  arose, 
and  opening  the  door,  cried  out, 

"Patrick,  ordher  from  the  restherant  beefsteak  and  on- 
ions for  two ;  and  bring  in  a  bottle  of  '  Mum,'  and  a  bottle 
of  the  best  brandy — the  very  best,  mind  ye."  As  he  re- 
sumed his  seat,  he  continued :  "  So  the  black  divils  of  Span- 
iards were  too  smart  for  ye,  an'  got  howld  of  all  yer  money, 
did  they  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  Finch.  "  '  Whoever 
sups  with  the  devil  ought  to  have  a  long  spoon.'  I  short- 
ened my  spoon  by  drinking,  and  you  see  the  consequences. 
It  might  have  been  different  bad  I  not  met  that  man  Bai- 
ley, lie  and  a  companion  of  his  were  on  the  point  of 
death,  when,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  we  picked  them  up 
and  took  them  to  Chili.  I  was  afraid  he  would  recognize 
me ;  and  hence  I  fled  from  city  to  city  and  became  a — 
drunkard.  But  I  am  going  to  reform,  and  make  another 
fortune." 

By  this  time  the  beefsteak  and  onions,  th,e  champagne 
and  brandy,  were  before  this  precious  pair.  Quin,  like  the 
majority  of  his  class,  was  temperate  from  sheer  selfishness, 
and  ate  little  and  drank  less.  Finch  did  not  eat  much,  but 
drank  greedily.  Liquor  might  deprive  him  of  his  power 
of  locomotion,  but  could  not  wholly  deprive  him  of  his  na- 
tive craft  and  mental  power. 

"  Mr.  Quin,"  said  Finch,  after  a  long  silence  and  deep 
thought,  "  what  became  of  those  papers  which  you  kindly 
showed  me  the  last  time  we  had  the  honor  of  dining  to- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  201 

gether?  Do  you  know  who  holds  them  ?  Did  Grady  ever 
threaten  to  use  them  ?" 

"  Come,  Finch,"  said  Qnin,  in  an  angry  tone,  "  no  more 
of  that !  I'm  now  a  rich  man,  an'  I  want  no  more  schames 
and  thrasons.  I'm  not  agoin'  to  play  wid  fire  no  more. 
I'm  willin'  to  help  ye,  but  not  in  that  way." 

Finch  gave  Quin  one  of  his  old,  quick  glances  of  deadly 
hatred,  as  he  replied, 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  join  in  anything  of  the  kind.  I 
merely  desire  to  know  if  they  can  use  those  papers  against 
me."  ' 

"  For  some  rason,"  said  Quin,  "  Grady  does  not  wish  to 
punish  or  purshue  ye ;  an'  sence  his  frind  Bailey  is  med 
all  right,  an'  howlds  a  good  place  wid  Warrenton,  Wilde  & 
Co.,  I  think  that  no  attimpt  will  be  med  to  harm  ye ;  that 
is,  me  boy,  if  ye  keep  quiet,  and  play  no  more  of  ycr  ould 
thricks." 

Finch  reflected  for  a  few  moments  before  he  asked, 
"  Have  you  heard  of  a  young  woman  named  Miss  Edwards 
in  connection  with  Grady  ?" 

"Once  or  twice,"  replied  Quin,  "Grady  mintioncd  her 
name.  You  remimber  you  saw  her  whin  I  was  so  dhrugged, 
ye  rascal,  that  I  knew  nothin'  until  the  next  day." 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  my  wife  or  her  father?"  Finch 
asked,  with  a  peculiar  look. 

"Not  much.  I  hard  that  she  got  a  divorce,  and  that 
ould  Van  Hess  has  gone  to  the  dogs.  He  does  some  com- 
mission business,  but  not  much.  He  sold  his  grand  house 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  an'  now  lives  in  simple  sthyle  on  one  of 
the  crass-sthreets." 

Considerably  refreshed,  and  having  obtained  the  infor- 
mation he  sought,  Finch,  fearful  of  trespassing  on  the  kind- 
ness of  his  friend,  arose  to  take  his  leave.  He  paused,  hesi- 
tated, and  finally  managed  to  say, 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Quin ;  you  have  treated  me  very 
kindly ;  but  I  have  not  a  cent  in  the  world.  Could  you 
lend  me  ten  dollars?" 

Quin,  proud  of  his  superiority,  and  with  an  air  of  patron- 
age, replied, 


202  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"My  dear  Finch"  (he  dropped  the  Mr.),  "you  must 
promise  me  to  dhrink  no  more  bad  liquor :  you  may  dhrink 
two  or  three  glasses  of  good  stuff ;  an'  ate,  man — ate  good 
hearty  food — three  square  males  a  day,  an'  build  yerself  up. 
'Why  should  ye  go  to  the  dogs  ?  Here's  the  loan  of  twinty 
dollars ;  an'  if  ye  keep  sober,  come  to  me  at  the  ind  of  a 
week  an'  I'll  thry  and  put  a  dacent  shuit  of  clo'es  on  yer 
back,  an'  give  ye  one  more  chance  to  rack  yer  forthin — but 
in  an  honest  way,  moind  ye — ha  !  ha  !  ha  !" 

This  honest  way,  according  to  the  code  of  morals  pur- 
sued by  Timothy  Quin,  was  to  get  all  the  money  he  could, 
by  hook  or  by  crook,  without  laying  himself  liable  in  law. 
Finch  understood  him  ;  pocketed  the  twenty  dollars ;  prom- 
ised to  keep  sober ;  took  his  leave  with  many  protestations 
of  gratitude;  ducked  into  another  corner  groggery  about 
one  hundred  yards  from  Quin's ;  called  for  a  glass  of  brandy ; 
had  his  twenty-dollar  bill  converted  into  small  bills  and  sil- 
ver ;  jumped,  under  the  impetus  of  liquor,  into  a  Third  Ave- 
nue car,  and  took  a  seat  in  the  corner. 

"  Blast  the  impudence  and  ignorance  of  this  low  Irish- 
man !"  muttered  the  grateful  Finch.  "  Patronizing  me ! 
Giving  me  advice  !  But  wait !  I  must  restrain  this  horri- 
ble thirst  for  rum ;  for  if  I  do  not,  I  arn  a  lost  man.  I  must 
build  myself  up,  that  I  may  tear  others  down.  Oh,  faugh! 
How  I  detest  that  vulgar  Irishman !  How  I  detest  them 
all !  So  Jenny  Edwards  would  not  let  that  brute  of  an  un- 
cle-in-law  publish  to  the  world  my  forgery.  Ah !  Jenny, 
my  dear,  you  have  not  yet  forgotten  your  first  love — what 
woman  ever  does  ?  Jenny,  my  sweet  lady,  you  have  saved 
money,  and  I  need  some  of  it.  Let  me  see !  I  have  two 
trump  cards  to  play — the  divorce  and  Jenny.  And  why 
couldn't  I  marry  Jenny  ?  She's  clever,  and  that  my  late 
wife  never  was."  Thus  soliloquizing,  and  planning  for  the 
future,  this  intellectual  fiend,  who  seemed  superior  to  a 
quantity  of  liquor  that  would  have  made  three  ordinary 
men  intoxicated,  took  lodgings  in  a  humble  boarding-house 
in  the  Bowery,  near  its  junction  with  Chatham  Street. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  203 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"  Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude." — SHAKSPEARE. 

THE  next  morning  Finch  lay  wide  awake  in  his  filthy  bed, 
thinking  deeply.  He  had  to  struggle  against  the  thirst  for 
liquor,  which  increased  with  tenfold  force  now  that  he  had 
the  means  to  gratify  it.  He  resisted  the  craving  with  all 
his  might,  for  he  clearly  perceived  that  if  he  continued  his 
present  mode  of  living  his  days  were  numbered.  To  begin 
life  anew  he  must  have  all  his  wits  about  him ;  he  must 
keep  sober  and  improve  his  general  health.  Reflecting 
npon  his  past  career,  he  discovered  the  one  weak  point 
which  had  ruined  all ;  and  that  was,  trusting  a  confidant 
and  having  an  ally  in  Timothy  Quin.  Had  he  ruined 
George  Bailey  without  assistance  —  and  surely  he  should 
have  been  able  to  do  so — trouble  could  not  have  overtaken 
him.  And  how  careless  it  was  to  drop  those  torn  practice- 
papers  into  the  waste-basket,  and  thus  give  that  cunning 
knave,  Quin,  a  power  over  him  ! 

Engaged  in  these  reflections,  and  forming  these  resolu- 
tions, he  arose  with  a  fearful  headache,  and  went  down  to 
the  common  eating-room,  one  of  the  meanest  of  its  kind, 
and  ordered  very  strong  coffee  in  lieu  of  his  morning  dram 
of  brandy.  He  then  entered  a  second-hand  clothing  store 
in  Chatham  Street  and  bought,  for  ten  dollars,  a  suit  of  half- 
worn  black.  As  he  passed  the  flaring  grog-shops  his  appe- 
tite for  liquor  almost  overcame  him  ;  and  at  the  sight  of  the 
bottles  in  the  windows  his  pale  eyes  glistened,  and  his  frame 
shook  with  the  effort  to  abstain.  Once  he  actually  reached 
the  door  of  a  vile  "  bucket-shop  "  in  Mulberry  Street ;  but 
by  a  superhuman  effort  he  tore  himself  away.  Here  was  a 
singular  phenomenon — a  thoroughly  wicked  man,  who  never 
scrupled  at  any  crime  to  advance  his  interests,  endeavoring, 


204  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

with  great  force  of  will,  to  conquer  an  insatiable  desire  for 
strong  drink,  and  manifesting  in  the  fight  a  firmness  of  pur- 
pose which  would  have  done  honor  to  a  man  of  noble  nat- 
ure who  had  unfortunately  contracted  the  bad  habit.  To 
assist  his  will,  he  plunged  several  times  into  the  coffee-and- 
cake  cellars,  and  drank  cup  after  cup  of  strong  coffee — at 
least,  the  strongest  which  was  for  sale  in  such  places. 

The  craving  for  liquor  somewhat  appeased,  he  resumed 
his  reflections.  He  recalled  what  Quin  had  told  him  the 
evening  before ;  and  he  remembered  that  Jenny  had  saved 
him  from  arrest.  He  had  ascertained  her  address ;  and, 
fully  convinced  that  she  still  loved  him,  he  determined  to 
visit  her ;  and  in  order  to  work  on  her  sympathies,  he  would 
present  himself  before  her  in  his  dirt  and  rags.  Leaving 
his  bundle  of  newly-bought  second-hand  clothes  in  his  lodg- 
ings, he  went  to  the  hotel  in  which  Jenny  was  employed, 
and  inquired  for  Miss  Edwards,  informing  the  clerk  that 
her  aunt  in  Williarasburgh  was  dying,  and  that  he  was  sent 
in  haste  to  inform  her.  Finch  well  knew  that,  except  in 
case  of  life  and  death,  he  could  gain  no  admittance,  in  his 
present  plight,  into  any  decent  hotel.  Hence,  poor  Mrs. 
John  Grady  was  put  in  a  dying  condition  for  the  occasion. 
As  Finch  stood  at  the  end  of  a  long  corridor,  greasy  hat  in 
hand,  waiting  for  Jenny,  his  white  forehead  and  white  bald 
head  presented  such  a  contrast  to  the  red,  pimpled  face  and 
broken  nose,  covered  with  brandy-blotches,  that  he  looked 
like  a  man  whose  head  was  made  of  two  separate  and  dis- 
tinct halves  welded  together.  The  moment  Jenny  Edwards 
laid  her  eyes  on  him,  through  dirt  and  rags,  through  blotches 
and  pimples,  through  unkempt  hair  and  unshaven  face,  she 
recognized  the  man  who  had  won  her  virgin  heart.  All  the 
dye,  all  the  paint,  all  the  liquor  stains  in  the  world  could 
never  disguise  Myron  Finch  from  Jenny  Edwards.  Had  he 
been  away  from  her  sixty  years — were  he  tottering  into  the 
grave,  an  old  man — some  trick  of  eye,  or  foot,  or  hand,  some 
little  tone  of  voice,  unnoticed  by  the  world  at  large,  would 
have  revealed  to  her  the  man  who  was  once  dearer  to  her 
than  her  own  soul. 

"  My  God !  Myron  Finch,  what  brings  you  here  ?     "What 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  205 

can  you  want  with  me  ?"  asked  Jenny,  in  a  cold,  surprised 
tone,  and  with  an  expression  of  trouble  and  pain  in  her 
eye  and  over  her  pale  face. 

Finch  hung  his  head,  and  nervously  twitched  the  brim 
of  his  old  soft  hat,  as  he  replied  in  broken  accents,  "  Jen- 
ny— you  see — a  thoroughly  ruined  man — before  you — 
without  a  friend  in  the — wide  world !"  And  the  wretch 
made  the  tears  flow  down  his  flabby  cheeks. 

"  Whose  fault  is  it,  pray,  that  you  have  not  a  friend  in 
the  world  ?  But,  I  repeat,  what  do  you  want  with  me  ? 
"What  brings  you  here  ?" 

"  I  am  sick :  I  have  neither  house — nor  home — nor  a 
cent  to  buy  a  loaf  of  bread.  Oh,  Jenny,  have  some  pity 
for  me  !  I  know  I  have  been  wicked,  and  treated  you  bad- 
ly ;  but  I  am  so  sorry  for  it — so —  "  And  Finch  burst  into 
tears,  and  tried  to  hide  them  with  an  old  dirty  red  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

"  Enough  of  this — that  will  do  !"  said  Jenny,  somewhat 
sharply.  "This  play  cannot  go  on  here!  Once  more  I 
repeat,  what  do  you  want  with  me?" 

"Jenny,  you  are  very  hard  on  a  poor  broken-down  fel- 
low who  is  almost  at  death's  door." 

"  Hard  on  you  ?"  replied  Jennyr  with  a  look  of  infinite 
scorn  not  unmingled  with  pity.  "  Were  I  hard  on  you,  I 
would  —  well,  no  matter  what.  Myron  Finch,  we  cannot 
stand  talking  here  in  this  corridor,  attracting  the  attention 
of  the  servants." 

"  We  can  take  a  walk  outside,  if  you  please,"  said  Finch, 
in  an  insinuating  tone  ;  "  for  I  told  the  clerk  that  your  aunt 
was  very  ill,  and  desired  to  see  you.  We  need  not  go  out 
together.  I  will  meet  you  at  the  junction  of  Chatham 
Street  and  the  Bowery." 

"  At  your  lies  again  !" 

"  Without  this  harmless  lie  I  could  not  have  seen  you." 

"  Harmless  lie  ?  there's  no  such  thing !  But  go ;  I'll 
follow  you  in  five  minutes." 

AVhile  Jenny  was  putting  on  her  hat  and  shawl,  she  re- 
flected that  Finch,  being  freed  by  the  divorce,  could  now 
marry  her  and  satisfy  her  conscience.  If  the  wedding  cer- 


206  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

emony  were  once  performed  a  load  would  be  lifted  from 
her  heart.  Of  course,  the  wealth  of  the  universe  could  not 
have  bribed  her  to  live  with  Finch  one  hour  as  his  wife ; 
but  she  was  resolved  that  the  sin  of  thirteen  years  ago 
must  be  washed  out  by  a  marriage  ceremony,  performed 
by  a  minister  of  the  Gospel.  Jenny  thoroughly  believed 
in  the  Ten  Commandments — every  one  of  them  without  ex- 
ception— and  had  a  clear,  practical,  New  England  way  of 
calling  things  by  their  right  names. 

When  she  had  overtaken  Finch  at  the  appointed  place 
she  said,  "  Come,  be  brief ;  tell  me  what  you  want,  for  I 
shall  leave  you  at  the  ferry." 

"You  know  what  I  want — I  want  a  loan  of  a  little 
money.  If  I  had  not  been  so  horribly  sick  and  reduced 
I  would  not  have  troubled  you.  I  am  now  sorry  that  I 
called,  for  you  are  very  hard  on  me — very  hard !"  And 
Finch  sobbed. 

"Why  don't  you  reform,  and  go  to  work  like  a  man? 
See  what  your  crimes  have  brought  you  to !" 

"  I  know — I  know  it,"  said  Finch,  "  and  I  shall  reform  ;  I 
shall  indeed ;  and  make  atonement  to  you  for  the  wrong  I 
did  you." 

"  No,  no,  no  !  Myron  Finch,  you  can  make  no  atonement 
to  me ;  make  an  atonement  to  your  God.  Repent,  and 
abandon  your  evil  ways.  Ah !"  said  Jenny,  in  a  tone  half 
to  him  and  half  in  soliloquy,  "ah!  did  you  but  know  the 
torture,  the  horrid,  horrid  torture  which  I  endured  when 
you  abandoned  me  in  this  great  strange  city ;  how  I 
writhed  in  an  agony  of  superlative  misery ;  how  my 
withered  heart  slowly  turned  to  stone ;  how  I  prayed  for 
death ;  how  my  religion  would  not  permit  me  to  die  by 
my  own  hand ;  how  I  hoped  against  hope,  day  after  day, 
watching  out  of  the  window  and  listening  to  every  step  on' 
the  stair,  hoping  and  cursing  and  praying — oh,  the  horror 
of  those  weeks !"  and  Jenny  shut  her  eyes  and  shivered  at 
the  very  recollection  of  them.  "How  I  survived  I  know 
not.  I  think  it  was  owing  to  the  religious  instruction 
which  I  had  received  in  youth  that,  when  basely  aban- 
doned by  you,  I  turned  to  my  Saviour  and  he  sent  his 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  207 

Comforter.  I  arose  from  a  sick  bed,  resolved  to  work 
and  do  my  duty  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  No,  no,  no ! 
Myron  Finch,  you  can  make  no  atonement  to  me.  You 
might  as  well  try  to  restore  the  plucked  and  trampled  rose. 
Would  to  God  I  had  died  believing  in  your  truth  and 
goodness — died  in  that  New  England  village  where  I  wor- 
shipped you,  Myron  Finch,  as  the  embodiment  of  all  that 
was  noble  and  intellectual !"  The  tone  of  sadness  in 
which  this  was  uttered  would  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone. 
It  did  not  melt  Finch's,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  had 
none  to  melt.  He  was  calculating  how  fast  Jenny's  remi- 
niscences were  causing  her  heart  to  melt  toward  him,  and 
how  many  dollars  this  melting  mood  would  put  in  his 
pocket.  He,  therefore,  thought  it  wiser  not  to  interrupt 
her.  "Man,  man,"  continued  Jenny,  "you  never  knew 
what  you  threw  away !  What  was  Grace  Van  Hess's 
love  to  mine?  —  a  rush -light  to  the  sun!  I  could  have 
lifted  you  to  heights  of  honor  that  that  poor  creature 
never  dreamed  of.  Bah !  you  deserve  it  all.  You  mar- 
ried a  poor  weak  thing,  who  had  not  the  courage  or  the 
decency  to  stand  by  her  true  and  noble  lover,  whom  your 
villany  sent  to  State -prison.  And  as  for  you,  she  never 
cared  a  fig  for  you.  You  had  hardly  fled,  Bailey  had 
hardly  obtained  a  good  situation,  when  she  hurried  through 
her  divorce  in  the  hope  that  he  would  marry  her.  Marry 
her?  He  would  marry  first  the  lowest  strumpet  who 
prowls  the  back  slums  of  the  city.  But,  Heaven  help 
me,  I  am  the  last  who  have  the  right  to  speak  in  this 
way !" 

Finch  was  sharp  enough  to  read  Jenny's  heart  in  this 
outburst  against  his  late  wife,  and  to  profit  by  the  knowl- 
edge. 

"  Jenny,  as  God  is  my  judge,  I  never  loved  that  woman. 
I  only  married  her  for  her  father's  money." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you !"  Although  Jenny  said 
this,  in  her  secret  heart  she  was  glad  to  hear  that  he  had 
never  loved  his  wife. 

"  I  have  been  a  very  bad  man,  I  admit,"  said  Finch.  "  I 
know  how  wickedly  I  have  treated  you.  Away  down  in 


208  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

strange  lands,  when  I  was  sick  and  thought  myself  dying, 
I  had  time  to  reflect.  Oh,  Jenny,  you  are  the  only  woman 
whom  I  ever  loved !  can  you  not  be  a  little  less  harsh  with 
me?  One  of  my  reasons  for  coming  back  to  New  York, 
and  running' the  risk  of  imprisonment  for  life,  was  to  seek 
you  and  ask  your  forgiveness.  But  you  are  very  harsh 
with  me." 

In  spite  of  herself,  in  spite  of  her  knowledge  of  his  char- 
acter, she  was  considerably  softened.  The  man  was  poor, 
ragged,  dirty,  and  sick;  she  had  once  loved  him.  Her 
woman's  pity  surged  up  in  her  heart  at  the  sight  of  his 
wretchedness. 

"  Harsh !  harsh !"  said  Jenny,  "  why,  if  I  had  been 
harsh,  did  I  not  permit  John  Grady  to  have  you  arrested 
when  we  had  the  evidence  of  your  forgery  in  our  hands  \ 
Myron  Finch,  I  once  loved  you ;  that  love  has  turned  to 
disgust,  and  I  despise  you ;  and  yet,  because  of  this  former 
feeling,  I  would  save  you,  if  I  could,  from  eternal  perdi- 
tion." 

Finch,  instead  of  recoiling  from  the  woman  who  reviled 
him  in  such  terms,  wriggled  up  closer  and  closer  until  he 
touched  her  hand,  and  said,  "Jenny  Edwards,  I  love  you 
still.  I  love  you  only  in  all  the  earth.  In  my  misery  and 
loneliness  I  seek  you  out.  Forgive  me ;  forgive  me !  Can 
we  not  be  happy,  in  spite  of  the  past  ?" 

"  Myron  Finch,"  said  Jenny,  in  a  stern  tone,  "  hands  off ! 
Touch  me  not !  Your  touch  is  contamination !" 

Finch  slunk  back,  giving  her  a  sidelong  glance  full  of 
malice  and  vindictiveness. 

"  Well,  well ;  I  see  you  dislike  me — hate  me — will  not 
forgive  me.  This  is  my  last  attempt.  I'll  now  try  my  late 
wife ;  perhaps  she  will  not  be  so  obdurate.  At  any  rate, 
she  can  treat  me  no  worse  than  you." 

Finch  eyed  her  closely  and  furtively  to  see  the  effect  of 
this  last  shot,  but  it  entirely  failed  of  its  mark ;  for  Jenny 
was  too  well  aware  of  Mrs.  Finch's  passion  for  George 
Bailey,  and. knew  full  well  that  while  he  lived  Finch  had 
no  chance  in  that  quarter.  How  Jenny  Edwards  learned 
everything  concerning  Grace  Finch,  and  how  Grace  Finch 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  209 

learned  everything  about  Edith  Wilde,  is  a  female  mystery 
which  we  shall  not  try  to  fathom  at  present. 

"  Go  to  your  late  wife,"  said  Jenny,  "  and  see  if  she  will 
treat  you  any  better  than  I  have  done.  But  why  talk  in 
this  \vay  about  your  late  wife  ?  I  understand  you — I  am 
no  child.  Go  to  work,  as  I  said  before,  like  a  man :  re- 
form, repent !  All  I  have  in  the  world  I  would  give  freely 
to  make  you  a  good,  honest  man." 

"  What  would  you  have  a  fellow  to  do,  I  repeat,  who  is 
sick,  houseless,  homeless,  hungry,  without  a  stitch  of  decent 
clothing  to  his  back,  without  a  cent  in  his  pocket  to  buy  his 
dinner  ?  Good  God  !  woman,  have  mercy  on  a  fellow !" 

Disgusted,  and  yet  full  of  compassion,  Jenny  drew  out 
her  pocket-book  and  handed  him  fifty  dollars. 

"  Here,"  said  she,  "  go  and  buy  yourself  a  decent  suit  of 
clothes  in  which  you  can  look  for  employment.  When  you 
are  reformed  come  and  see  me  again,  but  not  before.  Go, 
go!" 

The  mean  hound  grabbed  the  money,  and  actually  count- 
ed it  in  her  presence.  His  watery  eyes  gloated  over  it,  be- 
fore he  hid  it  away  with  what  remained  of  Quin's  twenty 
dollars.  The  vulture-like  avidity  with  which  he  had  seized 
her  hard-earned  money  was  extremely  painful  to  Jenny  Ed- 
wards. As  she  walked  away  from  him,  the  tears  fell  thick 
and  fast  as  she  soliloquized : 

"  Poor  wretch !  poor  wretch  !  How  fallen  !  how  low  ! 
And  this  is  all  that  remains  of  my  hero?  And  yet  I  would 
give  my  heart's  blood  to  make  him  such  a  man  as  George 
Bailey !" 

Finch  soliloquized  too  :  "  Work  be  hanged !  How  can  I 
work  ?  She  has  plenty  of  money  saved,  and  I  must  have 
my  share  of  it.  This  is  a  mine,  and  I'll  work  it." 

Ah,  Jenny,  Jenny  !  by  what  strange  circumstances  do  he- 
roic women  like  you  fall  into  the  hands  of  such  ghouls  as 
Myron  Finch,  and  frivolous  wax-dolls  become  the  idols  of 
the  most  chivalrous  men  ? 

14 


210  GEORGE  BAILEY. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
"  Vice  stings  us,  even  in  our  pleasures." — COLTON. 

IT  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the  day  that  My- 
ron Finch  had  wheedled  out  of  Jenny  Edwards  fifty  dollars 
of  her  hard -earned  money,  and  Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess,  his 
daughter,  and  his  two  grandchildren  were  seated  after  din- 
ner in  the  dining-room.  The  old  gentleman  was  trying  to 
read,  amidst  the  clamor  and  squabbling  of  the  two  children, 
the  condition  of  the  stock-market,  as  recorded  in  the  Even- 
ing Post.  Mrs.  Finch  was  vainly  endeavoring  to  prevail 
upon  her  son,  a  boy  of  twelve  years  of  age,  to  study  his 
lessons  for  the  morrow.  Myron  Finch,  Jr.,  was  a  faithful 
copy  of  his  sire  in  form,  in  color,  and  in  disposition,  but  not 
in  intellect,  for  in  this  he  had  caught  his  mother's  weakness. 

"  What's  the  use  of  them  books  ?"  he  petulantly  asked 
his  mother,  tossing  his  head  from  side  to  side  with  a  strong 
expression  of  disapproval.  "  You  won't  let  a  fellow  read 
'  The  Boy  Robber  of  the  Red  River.'  That's  a  bully  book ! 
He  shot  his  dad  in  the  knee  for  lickin'  him  when  he  was 
only  thirteen — one  year  older  than  me." 

"  Hush,  hush,  Myron !  your  grandfather  will  hear  you, 
and  be  angry.  Take  your  books  this  instant  and  study 
your  lessons,  or  I'll  whip  you  and  send  you  to  bed." 

"  Well,  wait  until  I  am  a  few  years  older,"  replied  the 
amiable  lad,  "  and  I'd  like  to  see  any  one — " 

"Ma!  ma!  won't  you  make  Myron  stop  pinching  me?" 
screamed  the  little  sister.  "  I  do  believe  he  has  pinched  a 
piece  out  of  my  arm  !" 

"  Children,  keep  quiet,"  said  the  grandfather,  over  his 
spectacles.  "  Grace,  if  those  children  cannot  keep  quiet, 
send  them  directly  to  bed.  They  disturb  me — annoy  me ; 
they  are  always  quarrelling." 

At  this  the  young  Myron  stuck  his  tongue  in  his  cheek 
and  winked  villanously  at  his  little  sister. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  211 

"  Ma !  ma !  won't  you  make  Myron  stop  ?" 

But  Myron  simply  made  a  grimace  more  wicked  than  the 
one  that  preceded  it.  Ah,  verily,  "  Their  fathers  have  eaten 
sour  grapes,  and  the  children's  teeth  are  on  edge  I" 

In  the  mean  time  the  father  of  this  hopeful  student  of 
"The  Boy  Robber  of  the  Red  River,"  having  refrained  all 
day  from  drinking  strong  liquor,  and  having  now  in  his  pos- 
session what  appeared  to  him  a  very  large  sum  of  money 
(for  everything  in  this  world  is  relative),  and  excellent 
prospects  of  making  more  in  a  like  easy  fashion,  resolved, 
"just  this  once,"  to  treat  resolution,  and  indulge  himself  in 
one  or  two  glasses  of  brandy,  for  the  purpose  of  steadying 
his  nerves  for  another  pecuniary  raid. 

He  plunged  into  one  of  the  low  dens  near  the  ferry  and 
drank  twice  in  succession.  Like  the  tiger's  taste  for  blood, 
the  taste  of  the  drunkard  is  only  whetted  by  a  little  liquor. 
There  never  was  a  better  maxim  for  the  dipsomaniac  than, 
"  Touch  not,  taste  not,  handle  not ;"  and  Finch  knew  it  as 
well  as  any  man  living.  But  this  "just  once  "  was  his  ruin. 
For  half  an  hour,  while  walking  toward  Broadway,  he  fought 
against  the  craving  for  more  liquor ;  but  the  insatiable  de- 
sire overcame  his  resolution.  Again  he  entered  a  low  grog- 
gery  and  drank  a  large  glass  of  Jamaica  rum,  that  being,  in 
his  estimation,  the  most  fiery  liquor  in  the  market.  Al- 
though his  limbs  trembled  and  his  hands  shook,  his  brain 
was  untouched ;  and  he  entered  Broadway  making  most 
heroic  efforts  to  steady  himself,  and  wondering  why  he  al- 
ways became  drunk  in  his  legs,  and  not  in  his  head,  like 
most  men. 

In  Broadway  he  saw  a  sight  which  nearly  sobered  him ; 
he  saw  George  Bailey  and  Walter  Wilde  walking  up  that 
fashionable  street  arm-in-arm,  and  chatting  pleasantly  on 
the  affairs  of  the  day.  Of  course,  neither  recognized  in  the 
dirty,  ragged  wretch  before  them  their  fellow -passenger, 
Alexander  Brown.  As  they  overtook  him,  Walter  Wilde 
remarked  to  his  companion, 

"  What  a  wretched  creature !  Just  see  what  rum  will 
bring  a  man  to !" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Bailey ;  "  but  who  knows  the  trials 


212  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

and  temptations  that  led  him  to  such  a  state?  God  help 
us  all !  I  was  once  sorely  tempted  myself.  My  sufferings 
have  taught  me  one  good  lesson — charity  for  the  fallen." 

Finch  overheard  the  conversation,  and  instead  of  feeling 
grateful  for  the  compassionate  language,  and  still  more  com- 
passionate tone  of  voice,  he  cursed  Bailey  again  and  again, 
and  hated  the  man  most  intensely  because  he  had  injured 
him. 

When  Bailey  and  Wilde  were  lost  in  the  crowd,  Finch 
plunged  into  another  basement  groggery  near  Broadway, 
and,  uttering  internal  imprecations,  drank  off  two  more 
glasses  of  Jamaica  rum  to  console  himself  for  the  sight  he 
had  just  witnessed.  "  Now,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  I  am  in 
fit  condition  to  see  my  late  wife  and  father-in-law,  and  make 
them  '  bleed.'  It  will  be  no  paltry  fifty  dollars  this  time." 

A  remarkable  feature  in  this  man's  character  was  that  he 
never  once  thought  of  his  children ;  and  in  this  respect  he 
was  below  the  brute.  When  a  man  once  abandons  princi- 
ple, and  thinks  of  nothing  but  the  gratification  of  his  selfish 
appetites,  the  veiy  reason  which,  rightly  directed,  elevates 
him  to  an  equality  with  the  angels,  enables  him  to  think 
thoughts  and  do  deeds  that  would  shame  the  very  lowest  of 
the  brute  creation. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door-bell  of  Jacob  Van  Iless's 
house.  Susie  O'Xeil,  the  only  servant  of  all  work,  answered 
it.  She  saw  by  the  dim  light  of  the  hall  a  dirty,  ragged 
man,  with  a  strong  odor  of  bad  liquor  on  his  breath,  stand- 
ing in  the  vestibule,  and  surveying  him  for  an  instant  she 
exclaimed,  "  No-o-o !" 

"  I  wish  to  see  your  master,"  said  the  tramp. 

"  You  can't  see  him.  Go  'way ;  we  never  gives  anything 
to  tramps  nor  beggars." 

"  I  am  neither  a  tramp  nor  a  beggar,  you  impertinent 
flunkey !" 

In  the  mean  time  the  tramp  had  insinuated  his  body  so 
far  inside  the  door  that  Susie  could  not  shut  it;  she  was, 
therefore,  obliged  to  call  out,  "  Mr.  Van  Hess !  there's  a 
tramp  in  the  hall  that  won't  go  'way !  Please  come  here 
an'  put  him  out !" 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  213 

Mrs.  Finch  went  up-stairs  with  the  two  children  ;  and  the 
husband  and  father  saw  them  as  they  passed.  Mr.  Van 
Iless  accosted  the  tramp  in  an  angry  tone, 

"  Well,  sir,  what  do  you  want  here?  Leave  my  premises, 
or  I'll  call  a  policeman/' 

"  Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess,  I  warn  you  that  you  had  better 
not,"  said  the  tramp,  in  an  insolent  voice. 

"Why  not?  why  not?  Susie,  call  a  police-officer  this 
instant !  Do  you  mean  to  rob  me — murder  me  ?  Begone, 
sir !" 

While  Susie  was  looking  for  an  officer,  the  tramp  whis- 
pered, 

"  Jacob  Van  Hess,  you  had  better  dismiss  the  policeman  ; 
for  if  I  am  arrested  there  will  be  a  scene.  You  don't  know 
rne,  eh  ?  You  don't  know  your  son-in-law,  Myron  Finch?'1'' 

Had  a  thunderbolt  dropped  at  the  feet  of  the  old  man 
he  could  not  have  been  more  astounded.  He  was  obliged 
to  lean  against  the  hat-rack  for  support.  The  color  left  his 
face,  and  the  lines  about  his  mouth  deepened.  He  feared 
Finch  with  an  exceeding  fear :  he  feared  him  more  than  he 
did  Satan.  Here  was  his  evil  genius  come  back  to  torment 
him ;  here  was  the  fiendish  hypocrite  whose  wiles,  tricks, 
lies,  and  villany  had  blasted  his  life,  and  whose  cruelty  had 
destroyed  the  happiness  of  his  only  child;  here  was  his 
ruthless  enemy,  who  had  destroyed  his  business  and  reduced 
him  from  affluence  to  respectable  poverty.  Jacob  Van 
Hess  remained  for  a  minute  or  two  speechless,  and  almost 
unconscious,  dazed,  and  horror-stricken  by  the  blow. 

"  I  say,  old  man,  do  you  desire  a  scene  ?  Do  you  want 
me  arrested?  Do  you  want  that  divorce  business  ripped 
up  from  stem  to  stern  ?  If  you  don't,  be  quick,  for  here 
comes  the  policeman.  Just  tell  him  it  is  all  a  mistake.  Do 
you  hear,  old  man  ?" 

Words  would  fail  to  describe  the  insolence  of  Finch's 
language,  tone,  and  manner.  There  was  a  threat  in  every 
syllable,  a  threat  in  every  inflection  of  his  cracked  voice, 
and  a  threat  in  every  gesture  of  his  bloated  body. 

The  policeman  was  told  that  it  was  a  mistake,  and  that 
he  was  not  needed.  The  officer  eved  Finch  and  Van  Iless 


214  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

with  a  knowing  look,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  returned 
to  his  "  beat,"  muttering,  " '  A  skeleton  in  every  house !' 
but  it's  none  of  my  funeral." 

"  Susie,"  whispered  Mr.  Van  Hess,  "  tell  your  mistress 
that  I  have  a  private  engagement  with  this — this — man ; 
and  you  need  not  tell  her  what  sort  of  man  he  is.  Do  you 
understand  ?" 

Far  better  for  you,  Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess,  had  you  seen 
your  late  son-in-law  in  your  daughter's  presence.  But  it 
was  otherwise  ordered ;  for 

"  There  is  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  as  we  may." 

Myron  Finch  chuckled  at  his  success;  for  he  had  not 
failed  to  note  that  the  old  man,  weak  and  timid,  had  taken 
pains  to  let  neither  his  daughter  nor  his  servant  know  that 
the  tramp  was  no  other  than  Myron  Finch.  He  felt  that 
Mr.  Van  Hess  was  simply  a  goose  to  be  plucked  of  his  last 
feather  and  bled  to  his  last  drop  of  blood. 

"  Well,  old  man,  can't  you  invite  a  fellow  into  your  par- 
lor or  dining-room  ?" 

As  they  entered  the  room,  Finch  cast  his  eyes  around 
and  observed  the  shabbiness  of  the  furniture.  "  I  perceive," 
he  continued,  "  that  your  Fifth  Avenue  grandeur  has  gone, 
like  my  money.  You  may  see,  Mr.  Van  Hess — you  may  see 
for  yourself  that  I  am  very  poor  and  very  sick,  and  have  not 
a  cent  in  the  world  with  which  to  buy  my  supper  or  my  bed." 

"Go  on,  sir;  proceed,"  said  poor  Mr.  Van  Hess,  in  a  tone 
of  weak  despair. 

"  Mr.  Van  Hess,  you  and  I  were  partners,  and  the  part- 
nership was  never  dissolved  with  my  consent.  True,  I 
went  on  a  little  tour  to  South  America — rather  abruptly, 
I  admit — for  my  health  ;  but  that  is  no  crime  in  law.  Now 
I  have  come  back  for  a  settlement — a  settlement,  do  you 
hear?" 

"  Yes,  I  hear." 

"  Very  well,  I  want  you  to  heed.  I  had  two  purposes  in 
coming  back  to  New  York ;  one  I  have  just  told  you,  the 
other  is  to  contest  that  illegal  divorce,  obtained  during  my 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  215 

absence  by  fraud  and  false  swearing.  I  know  why  Mrs. 
Finch  was  in  such  haste  to  obtain  the  divorce." 

For  a  drunken  man,  his  case  was  very  clearly  stated ;  and 
he  had  the  subtlety  to  wind  it  up  with  an  implied  threat. 

Jacob  Van  Hess  made  one  desperate  effort  to  shake  off 
the  toils  that  Finch  was  casting  around  him. 

"  Finch,  you  committed  forgery ;  you  absconded  with 
much  of  the  assets  of  our  house :  my  daughter  obtained 
her  divorce  in  a  legal  way.  We  desire  to  have  nothing 
further  to  do  with  you." 

"Ah!  that's  your  game,  is  it?  Old  man,  age  begins  to 
tell  on  you.  I  committed  no  forgery.  Where's  your 
proof  ?  I  committed  no  adultery.  You  have  no  proof.  A 
divorce  obtained  for  anything  else  is  null  and  void  —  at 
least  in  New  York.  Don't  repeat  these  charges  before  wit- 
nesses, for  if  you  do,  I  may  sue  you  for  defamation  of  char- 
acter. Come,  come,  old  gentleman ;  had  not  George  Bailey, 
your  daughter's  old  lover,  returned  from  State-prison,  and 
so  imposed  upon  Mr.  Wilde  as  to  obtain  a  good  situation, 
my  wife  would  never  have  sought  a  divorce.  How  would 
all  this  sound  in  a  court  of  justice  ?  How  would  it  appear 
in  print  that  your  daughter  obtained  a  divorce  by  fraud  to 
gratify  a  passion  for  a  returned  convict  ?" 

"  Silence,  you  fiend !  Not  another  word  about  my 
daughter,  whose  life  you  have  blighted." 

Finch  perceived  that  he  must  not  irritate  Mr.  Van  Hess 
too  much,  and  therefore  changed  his  tone : 

"  Mr.  Van  Hess,  I  will  not  be  hard  on  you.  I  am  very 
poor.  Give  me  one  hundred  dollars  to-night,  and  nine  hun- 
dred one  week  from  to-night,  and  we  will  call  it  square." 

"  Will  you  promise  me  to  disturb  neither  my  daughter 
nor  me  ?  But  what  is  the  use  ?  I  cannot  rely  on  your 
promise." 

"Old  gentleman,  I'll  do  better  than  that;  I'll  give  you 
my  solemn  affidavit.  I  only  want  to  get  on  my  feet  again, 
and  then  I  shall  leave  you  forever." 

Finch's  plan  was  to  make  himself  appear  as  vile  and  filthy 
as  possible — and  it  must  be  admitted  that  it  required  little 
effort  on  his  part — in  order  to  strike  terror  into  Mr.  Van 


216  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Hcss's  heart ;  for  Finch  thoroughly  understood  that  the 
great  aim  in  life  of  both  father  and  daughter  had  always 
been  to  stand  well  with  the  world,  and  to  be  considered  very 
"  respectable."  For  this  cause,  chiefly,  Grace  Van  Hess  had 
abandoned  Bailey  on  the  first  rumor  of  his  fall ;  and  for 
this  cause,  too,  her  father  was  anxious  to  see  her  married 
to  that  young  paragon  of  a  Christian,  Myron  Finch,  so  that 
people  would  cease  to  talk  of  Grace's  engagement  to  a  con- 
vict. Seeing  that  Mr.  Van  Hess  hesitated,  Finch  said, 

"  Mr.  Van  Hess,  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  you,  but  if 
you  don't  consent  to  my  terms,  I  shall  go  to-morrow  and 
employ  a  lawyer — yes,  without  a  retainer — to  commence 
two  suits,  one  for  twenty  thousand  dollars,  as  my  share  of 
the  business  of  Van  Hess,  Finch  &  Co.,  and  another  to  set 
aside  the  divorce  as  illegal." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  Finch  intended  nothing  of  the 
kind ;  for  the  last  place  which  he  desired  to  enter  was  a 
court  of  justice.  He  simply  desired  to  work  on  the  fears 
of  Mr.  Van  Hess,  and  this  he  did  most  thoroughly.  The 
last  little  speech  brought  the  old  gentleman  to  terms.  He 
counted  one  hundred  dollars  into  the  greedy  hands  of 
Finch,  and  told  him  to  call  in  a  week  for  nine  hundred 
more.  Finch,  elated  at  his  success,  withdrew,  and  treated 
himself  to  a  supper  of  raw  oysters  and  raw  brandy.  While 
sipping  his  second  glass  with  intense  satisfaction,  he  reflect- 
ed on  his  day's  work.  One  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  since 
morning,  not  speaking  of  the  twenty  dollars  which  he  had 
obtained  from  Quin,  was  not  a  bad  beginning ;  and  then 
nine  hundred  dollars  one  week  from  to-day  !  why,  it  was 
better  than  a  gold  -  mine.  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  "  And  I  heard 
Grace  wrangling  with  the  brats.  The  first  time  I've 
thought  of  them  in  three  years^  I  do  believe." 


GEORGE  BAILEY. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"He  that  studieth  revenge  keepeth  his  own  wounds  green." 

BACON. 
"  Soft  is  the  memory  of  buried  love." — BYRON. 

THE  next  evening  'there  were  assembled  at  the  tea-table 
of  Mrs.  John  Grady,  in  addition  to  her  husband,  George 
Bailey,  Washington  Scroggs,  and  Jenny  Edwards.  Mr. 
Grady  was  aggressive  and  belligerent  as  ever,  and  as  ready 
to  use  the  "  carnal  weapon ;"  George  Bailey  was  sadly  out 
of  sorts,  owing  to  his  jealousy  of  Henry  Fawcett,  aggravated 
by  the  anonymous  note  which  he  had  received  about  ten 
days  previously ;  Jenny  Edwards  was  abstracted,  and  paid 
little  attention  to  anything  except  her  own  sad  reflections ; 
and  the  little  quack  prattled  away  about  his  panacea  for  all 
ailments  both  of  body  and  mind.  In  vain  the  "  doctor" 
expatiated  in  Johnsonian  English  upon  the  afflux  and  efflux 
of  the  sanguineous  fluids  from  the  centre  to  the  periphery, 
from  the  seat  of  congestion  in  the  vital  organs  to  the  cuti- 
cle, which  is  the  grand  emunctory  of  the  system.  Neither 
Bailey  nor  Jenny  Edwards  paid  the  slightest  attention  to 
what  he  said  j  and  it  is  doubtful  if  Mrs.  or  Mr.  John  Grady 
knew  the  meanings  of  half  the  words  that  the  little  man 
used  in  ordinary  conversation.  Though  the  little  quack 
had  the  sweetest  of  tempers,  and  the  most  forgiving  of  dis- 
positions, he  could  not  fail  to  notice  that  no  one  of  the 
party  seemed  to  pay  the  least  attention  to  his  learned  dis- 
quisition upon  "capillary  attraction  and  the  specific  gravity 
of  atmospheric  air." 

"  Jenny,  my  dear,  I  hope  you  are  not  afflicted  with  hypo- 
chondriacism  (from  two  Greek  words  meaning  cartilage)  or 
melancholia  (which  means  bile,  id  est,  disease  or  congestion 
of  the  liver) ;  for  if  you  are,  my  dear,  I  must  prescribe  for 
you  a  melanogogue  (likewise  from  the  Greek) ;  or  better 
still,  the  propulsion  of  one  thousand  pounds  avoirdupois  of 


218  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

air  from  the  surface  of  the  body.  The  vulgar  of  the  pres- 
ent day  call  this  particular  condition  of  the  organs  of  diges- 
tion and  assimilation,  which  is  simply  congestion, '  the  blues.' 
But  why  'the  blues,'  no  man  knoweth.  Peradventure, 
it  may  be  because  the  congested  blood  assumes  a  bluish 
tinge,  like  the  asphyxia  (also  from  the  Greek)  caused  by 
strangulation.  In  the  olden  time  melancholia  was  known 
by  the  somewhat  singular  cognomen  of  '  vapors.'  And  why 
'  vapors  ?'  Because  it  was  supposed  by  the  ignorant  that 
in  hypochondriacisrn  the  diseased  liver  gave  forth  vapors 
(or,  if  you  will  pardon  the  expression,  wind)  which  ascend- 
ed to  the  brain,  and  played  extraordinary  freaks  with  the 
imagination." 

The  fact  is,  the  little  quack  was  not  under  the  necessity 
of  asking  pardon  from  any  one,  for  not  one  of  the  party 
heard  a  syllable  of  the  latter  part  of  his  discourse. 

"Jenny,  my  dear,  are  you  ill?"  asked  the  doctor  in  plain 
English,  which  he  could  speak  very  well  when  he  pleased. 

"  I  have  a  slight  headache,  doctor,  but  it  does  not  amount 
to  much.  I  shall  be  all  right  in  the  morning,  thank  you." 

"  I  sincerely  hope  so,"  replied  the  doctor,  with  a  look 
of  solicitude,  for  he  was  very  much  attached  to  Jenny  ;  then 
turning  to  Bailey,  he  was  about  to  open  his  batteries  on  him, 
when  he  (Bailey)  knowing  what  was  likely  to  come,  arose, 
and  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Jenny  Edwards  also 
arose,  and,  while  a  deep  blush  overspread  her  pale  face,  said, 

"  Mr.  Bailey,  I  would  like  a  few  minutes'  private  conver- 
sation with  yon,  if  you  have  no  objection." 

"  None  in  the  world,"  replied  Bailey,  glad  to  escape  the 
harangue  of  Dr.  Scroggs. 

They  retired  to  the  little  parlor,  and  sat  for  a  moment  in 
silence.  Bailey  was  patiently  waiting  for  Jenny  to  begin, 
and  she  was  evidently  thinking  of  the  proper  way  to  intro- 
duce the  subject.  At  length  she  said, 

"  Mr.  Bailey7,  you  know  me  well  enough  to  know  that  I 
would  scorn  to  flatter  you." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Bailey,  with  a  laugh  at  the  bare  idea 
that  this  sharp,  curt,  practical  New  England  woman  could 
condescend  to  flatter  anv  one. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  219 

"  Very  well,  sir ;  I  believe  you  to  be  a  good  man." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Edwards,  for  your  good  opinion." 

"  I  believe,  too,  that  you  have  suffered  terribly :  so  have  I." 

Bailey  did  not  laugh  nor  even  smile  at  this ;  lie  simply 
knit  his  brows,  and  his  eyes  asked  as  plainly  as  eyes  could 
ask, 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean,"  said  she,  replying  to  his  look,  "  that  we  who 
have  suffered  can  sympathize  with  suffering." 

"Truly,  Miss  Edwards,  I  believe  we  can." 

"  Can  we  forgive,  Mr.  Bailey  ?" 

"  Perhaps  we  can,  perhaps  we  cannot.  It  may  depend 
upon  the  nature  of  the  offence,"  replied  Bailey. 

"  Mr.  Bailey,  I  know  a  lady  who  suffered  a  worse  fate 
than  yours ;  worse,  because  her  injury,  like  cancer,  is  incur- 
able ;  and  she  has  forgiven  the  man  who  wronged  her." 

Bailey  began  to  suspect  the  drift  of  her  speech,  and  as 
he  did  so  his  eye  began  to  dilate  and  a  hectic  spot  appeared 
on  his  cheek-bone. 

"Mr.  Bailey,  you  love  and  are  beloved  by  as  good  a 
woman  as  ever  lived.  I  saw  it  in  her  face  on  the  day  that 
the  letter  came  from  Mr.  Walter  Wilde  telling  of  your  won- 
derful escape  out  of  the  jaws  of  death.  In  such  matters 
you  men  are  idiots ;  we  women  read  the  heart  like  an  open 
book.  Your  imprisonment,  foul  and  wrong  as  it  was,  has 
made  you  strong,  and  given  you  the  heart  of  a  woman 
worth  double  the  amount  of  suffering." 

Instinctively  Jenny  had  struck  the  right  chord,  and  the 
face  of  Bailey  began  to  soften. 

"Miss  Edwards,  I  really  do  not  understand  you.  Tell 
me  plainly  what  you  desire." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  replied  Jenny,  in  her  incisive  way, 
"give  me  a  promise  that  you  will  not  prosecute  Myron 
Finch." 

George  Bailey  arose  from  his  seat  and  took  the  hand  of 
Jenny  in  his  with  profound  respect,  lifted  it  to  his  lips,  and 
kissed  it. 

"  Say  no  more.  The  promise  is  granted.  Myron  Finch 
shall  never  be  prosecuted  by  me." 


220  CEOHGE  BAILEY. 

"  I  thank  you — oh,  so  much !  May  God  reward  you  ! 
Now  that  this  fear  is  removed  from  him,  I  may  reform  him 
and  bring  him  to  a  knowledge  of  the  Saviour." 

Jenny  Edwards  was  in  tears,  partly  out  of  gratitude,  and 
partly  because,  without  saying  so  in  so  many  words,  she 
had  let  Bailey  know  that  Myron  Finch  had  wronged  her; 
and  yet  he  had  kissed  her  hand  as  though  she  were  a  prin- 
cess. Bailey  took  his  leave  on  the  plea  that  he  had  some 
writing  to  do,  and  left  Jenny  Edwards  to  her  own  thoughts. 

During  the  interview  between  Bailey  and  Jenny  Ed- 
wards, Mr.  Jacob  Van  Iless  called  upon  John  Grady  for 
the  purpose  of  obtaining,  if  possible,  the  proofs  of  the  forg- 
ery committed  thirteen  years  before  by  his  late  son-in-law. 
Grady  was  well  aware  of  Jenny's  extreme  desire  to  save 
Finch  from  the  punishment  which  he  so  richly  deserved, 
and  to  reform  him,  if  possible,  into  a  good  Christian.  He 
knew  her  whole  history,  and  loved  her  as  though  she  were 
his  own  child.  Of  course,  he  did  not  agree  with  her  as  re- 
gards the  scoundrel  Finch,  but  nevertheless  he  respected  her 
feelings.  But  three  persons  knew  of  Finch's  return  to  New 
York,  and  these  three  had  good  reasons  for  not  making  the 
fact  generally  known.  Quin  feared  trouble  about  the  forg- 
ery; Jenny,  up  to  this  evening,  feared  that  Finch  might  be 
sent  to  State-prison ;  and  Mr.  Van  Hess  feared  personal  and 
family  disgrace. 

"  Mr.  Grady,"  said  Mr.  Van  Hess,  "  I  have  called  to  know 
if  you  will  let  me  have  the  practice-forgery  papers  which 
you  took  from  Mr.  Finch,  or  rather  from  Timothy  Quin,  for 
I  believe  they  were  in  his  possession." 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  John  Grady,  "  for  what  purpose  you 
desire  these  papers  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  are  aware,"  replied  Mr.  Van  Hess,  "  that 
my  daughter  lias  obtained  a  divorce  from  Finch ;  and  if 
ever  he  should  return  and  contest  this  divorce,  I  would  like 
to  be  able  to  make  him  cease  proceedings  by  showing  him 
the  papers  which  would  consign  him  to  State-prison." 

"  Yes,  yes — I  see,"  said  Grady.  "  I  wish  the  rascal  was 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean  !" 

"  So  do  I,  with  all  my  heart,"  responded  Mr.  Van  Hess. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  221 

"  But  look  here,  sir,"  said.  Grady,  "  George  Bailey  is  more 
interested  in  this  than  any  one  else.  I  am  only  the  custo- 
dian of  these  papers,  and  cannot  lend  them  to  you  without 
his  consent." 

"  Is  Mr.  Bailey  at  home  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Van  Iless. 

"He  is;  shall  I  call  him ?" 

Bailey  entered  the  room  and  shook  his  old  master  by 
the  hand.  His  former  aversion  had  disappeared;  and  he 
now  thought  only  of  the  kind  employer  who  had  advanced 
him  so  rapidly  in  business.  Mr.  Van  Hess  was  always  un- 
easy in  the  presence  of  Bailey,  for,  as  he  looked  at  this  no- 
ble man,  he  thought,  "  What  a  staff  he  would  have  been  to 
me  and  my  daughter !" 

"  Mr.  Grady,"  said  Mr.  Van  Hess,  speaking  slowly  and 
with  hesitation, "  yoii  are  aware  that  my  daughter  has  ob- 
tained a  divorce  from  her  late  husband, — and — and — you 
know  he  may  return — and  give  her  and  me  some  trouble. 
The  essential  evidence  was  procured  by  her  lawyer;  the 
other  evidence  as  to  cruelty,  peculation,  and  abandonment 
was  sufficient  in  most  of  the  States,  but  not  in  the  State  of 
New  York.  Suppose — and  it  is  not  improbable — that  this 
bad  man  should  return  and  contest  this  divorce ;  the  pa- 
pers— I  mean  those  papers  which  contained  the  evidence 
that  Finch  forged  the  check — would  enable  me  to  check- 
mate the  villain  and  send  him  off  about  his  business." 

While  Mr.  Van  Hess  was  speaking  to  Grady  his  counte- 
nance was  turned  to  Bailey,  as  if  he  were  the  man  from 
whom  he  expected  the  favor. 

"  I  cannot  part  with  these  papers,"  said  Grady,  "  without 
the  consent  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Bailey.  For  him  I  captured 
them,  and  they  are  his  to  do  with  as  he  pleases." 

"  Mr.  Van  Hess,"  said  Bailey,  with  calm  dignity,  "  those 
papers  must  not  be  used  for  the  purpose  of  prosecuting  the 
— the  man  who  wronged  me.  If  you  want  a  copy,  how- 
ever, for  your  own  protection,  or  for  the  protection  of  your 
daughter,  you  can  have  the  loan  of  them  until  you  make 
such  a  copy ;  but  they  must  be  returned  to  me  within  one 
month." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Mr.  Van   Hess ;   "  I   shall   need 


222  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

them  for  one  week  only;  andJE  assure  you  that  while  in 
my  custody  I  shall  take  the  greatest  care  of  them." 

Grady  and  Van  Hess  both  wondered  why  Bailey  insisted 
that  the  evidence  of  the  forgery  should  not  be  used  for  the 
purpose  of  prosecuting  Finch.  Neither  liked  to  ask  him 
the  reason  for  his  forbearance ;  and  it  is  not  likely  that  he 
would  have  told,  had  they  asked  him.  In  addition  to  his 
promise  to  Jenny  Edwards,  he  was  always  endeavoring  to 
interpret  the  wishes  of  Edith  Wilde.  Bailey  felt  that  she 
would  consider  any  act  of  yindictiveness  on  his  part  as  ig- 
noble and  beneath  him ;  for  had  she  not  always  counselled 
him  to  leave  the  matter  of  Finch's  chastisement  in  the 
hands  of  God,  to  whom  alone  vengeance  belongeth  ? 

Mr.  Van  Hess  having  received  the  forgery -practice  pa- 
pers from  Grady,  repeated  his  thanks,  bowed,  and  withdrew. 
The  same  fatal  mistake  that  had  caused  him  to  hide  from 
his  daughter  the  return  of  Finch,  had  actuated  him  to  hide 
it  from  Bailey  and  Grady.  The  man  was  old  and  feeble, 
and  feared  a  scene ;  and  he  fancied,  too,  that  the  evidence 
of  his  crime  would  drive  Finch  forever  from  the  city  of 
New  York.  In  his  best  days  Mr.  Van  Hess  was  not  a  bril- 
liant man ;  he  was  narrow,  bigoted,  and  easily  imposed 
upon ;  and  hence  he  found  it  an  easy  matter  to  impose 
upon  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

" 'Twas  his  own  voice.     She  could  not  err; 

Throughout  the  breathing  world's  extent 
There  was  but  one  such  voice  for  her — 
So  kind,  so  soft,  so  eloquent." — MOORE. 

WARRENTOX  having  retired  from  the  business,  Walter 
Wilde  and  George  Bailey  were  both  made  partners,  and 
the  house  was  known  throughout  Europe  and  America  as 
Wilde,  Bailey,  &  Co.,  Bankers.  The  elder  Mr.  Wilde  in- 
tended shortly  to  retire,  and  only  remained  for  the  present 
for  the  purpose  of  giving  the  young  men  the  benefit  of  his 
wise  counsel  and  wide  experience. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  223 

Notwithstanding  his  exalted  position,  Bailey  bore  himself 
as  humbly  as  when  a  simple  clerk,  and  still  continued  to  oc- 
cupy his  one  little  room  in  the  house  of  his  friend  Grady, 
to  read  his  rare  books,  to  pursue  his  usual  studies,  and,  above 
all,  to  worship  at  a  distance  his  guardian  angel,  Edith  Wilde. 
As  far  as  the  business  of  the  bank  was  concerned,  he  per- 
formed the  principal  part  of  the  work,  and  was  always  calm, 
cool,  and  self-poised  during  the  weightiest  commercial  en- 
terprises and  transactions.  To  the  minute  details  of  his 
office  he  gave  the  closest  care  and  scrutiny ;  and  in  a  short 
time  every  one  connected  with  the  house  discovered  that 
the  affairs  of  the  bank  were  in  the  hands  of  a  man  who  un- 
derstood both  himself  and  his  business.  Money  was  made 
rapidly,  and  George  Bailey  was  becoming  a  rich  man.  He 
was  now  nearly  forty  years  of  age.  His  health  was  per- 
fect, and  he  had  the  means  of  purchasing  every  luxury ; 
but  he  was  abstemious  as  a  hermit.  lie  had  completely 
conquered  his  thirst  for  vengeance,  and  had  put  his  jeal- 
ousy of  Mr.  Henry  Fawcett  under  his  feet.  His  love  for 
Edith  Wilde  he  had  so  etherealized  that  it  was  almost  di- 
vested of  earthly  passion.  The  sting  of  the  anonymous 
note  had  poisoned  his  heart  for  a  day  or  two ;  but  the  com- 
forting words  of  Jenny  Edwards,  that  Edith  loved  him,  had 
almost  removed  it.  lie  still  retained  his  old  prison  habit 
of  talking  to  himself  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  room.  This 
self-communion  was  good  for  him ;  it  enabled  him  to  call 
himself  to  account  for  the  thoughts  and  acts  of  each  day. 
Resolving  himself  into  two  persons,  Ego  and  Doppelganger 
— the  former  himself,  with  his  memory  and  his  passion,  the 
latter  the  man  of  business  in  his  contact  with  his  fellow- 
men — the  two  kept  watch  and  ward,  the  one  over  the  other. 
After  dinner  he  smoked  his  single  cigar,  and  talked  pleas- 
antly to  Grady,  his  wife,  the  little  quack — who  was  now  a 
boarder  in  Grady's  house — and  to  Jenny  Edwards,  whenever 
that  lady  called  to  pay  her  aunt  and  uncle  a  visit.  Then 
punctually  at  eight  o'clock  he  retired  to  his  room  to  read,  to 
study,  and  to  carry  on  the  dialogue  between  Ego  and  Dop- 
pelganger.  A  specimen  of  this  self-communion  will  show 
how  carefully  this  solitary  man  scrutinized  his  own  conduct. 


224  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Dop.  "  Ego,  you  were  a  fool  to-day.  What  business  had 
you  to  feel  bitter  toward  young  Fawcett,  and  permit  your 
worst  passions  to  boil  and  bubble  up  as  they  used  to  do 
•when  you  were  persecuted  by  the  brutal  keepers?" 

Ego.  "  I  could  not  help  it.  I  love  her :  I  love  the  very 
ground  she  walks  upon.  This  love  will  drive  me  mad!" 

Dop.  "  Nonsense,  old  boy  !  nonsense  !  You  survived  the 
loss  of  reputation,  of  position,  of  liberty,  of  everything. 
No,  no,  Ego,  you  must  be  a  man,  and  control  your  passion. 
Her  happiness  is  paramount  to  your  own ;  and  if  her  mar- 
riage with  Fawcett  will  make  her  happy,  you  must  submit." 

Ego.  "  But  Jenny  Edwards  said  that  she  loves  me." 

Dop.  "True,  true!  But  she  may  have  been  mistaken. 
Ah,  if  Jenny  were  right ! — then,  indeed,  you  might  aspire  to 
the  hand  of  an  angel.  But,  Ego,  my  dear  boy,  remember 
that  you  are  almost  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  and  that 
you  carry  around  with  you  the  atmosphere  of  the  prison, 
which  no  aromatic  odor  from  'Araby  the  Blest'  could  ever 
blow  away.  Bury  your  love  down  deep  in  your  heart,  and 
let  no  man  see  it." 

Ego.  "Very  well,  Dop,  I  shall  try ;  I  shall  do  my  best." 

In  this  way  George  Bailey  gained  a  complete  mastery 
over  his  strong  passions,  which  he  held  under  control  as  a 
skilful  rider  reins  in  a  fiery  steed. 

In  the  mean  time,  if  the  truth  must  be  confessed,  Edith 
"Wilde  wondered  that  Bailey  never  once  sought  her  society. 
Except  on  Sunday — before  or  after  church — and  then  for  a 
brief  minute  only,  she  rarely  saw  him.  Indeed,  he  seemed 
to  avoid  her,  for  he  frequently  but  politely  declined  her 
father's  invitations  to  dinner.  Convinced  as  she  was  of  his 
love,  why  had  he  shunned  her  so  much  of  late  ?  She  re- 
called the  short  angry  discussion  with  Henry  Fawcett,  and 
feared  that  he  was  the  cause ;  and,  woman-like,  she  disliked 
Mr.  Fawcett  accordingly.  In  fact,  she  had  lately  refused 
to  see  this  elegant  youth,  even  at  the  risk  of  offending  her 
father  and  brother.  To  George  Bailey,  from  the  very  first, 
she  had  given  all  the  treasures  of  a  pure  heart  and  lofty 
soul.  Her  love,  which  began  in  pity,  ended  in  admiration 
for  the  grandest  character  she  had  ever  known.  Verily, 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  225 

Bailey  was  a  noble  gentleman ;  but  she  exaggerated  his  pro- 
portions, until,  in  moral  greatness,  he  was  a  perfect  Titan. 
But  why  did  he  avoid  her?  she  asked  herself  again  and 
again.  Now  he  had  no  excuse  of  poverty  or  want  of  posi- 
tion to  plead ;  for  he  Avas  socially  her  equal.  Edith  Wilde 
would  have  married  him  had  she  been  forced  to  leave  her 
father's  luxurious  home,  and  to  dwell  with  him  in  absolute 
poverty  in  a  cellar  or  garret ;  she  would  have  married  and 
cherished  him  when  the  world  believed  him  guilty  of  forg- 
ery, and  it  would  have  constituted  her  highest  pleasure  to 
have  been  a  comfort  and  a  consolation  to  him  in  the  dark- 
est hour  of  his  misery. 

When  Edith  Wilde  received  an  anonymous  letter,  evident- 
ly written  by  the  same  hand  that  had  penned  the  epistle  to 
Bailey,  she  flung  it  into  the  fire,  and  never  gave  it  another 
thought.  Yet  this  note  suggested  matter  for  jealousy  quite 
as  reasonable  as  that  which  had  tormented  Bailey.  The 
note  was  as  follows : 

"  Miss  WILDE, — A  friend  takes  this  method  of  inform- 
ing you  that  Mr.  George  Bailey  is  very  intimate  with  a 
young  woman  named  Jenny  Edwards  —  employed  in  a 
down-town  hotel — who  calls  at  his  boarding-house  every 
Sunday,  and  whom  he  escorts  at  late  hours  to  the  Grand 
Street  ferry.  Beware  of  this  man :  he  will  play  you  false. 
A  word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient.  A  TRUE  FRIEND." 

As  Edith  threw  this  villanous  note  on  the  blazing  coals, 
she  simply  said  to  herself,  "  Poor  creature !  you  can  arouse 
no  feelings  of  jealousy  in  my  heart  by  so  shabby  and  shal- 
low a  trick  as  this.  George  Bailey  is  as  much  the  soul  of 
honor  to-day  as  he  was  the  day  that  you  cast  him  off  for 
Mr.  Myron  Finch." 

One  day  Walter  Wilde  approached  George  Bailey,  while 
writing  at  his  desk  in  the  inner  office,  and  slapping  him 
cordially  on  the  back,  said, 

"  See  here,  old  man,  why  do  you  work  so  hard  ?  Why 
don't  you  seek  amusement?  You'll  kill  yourself  by  such 
work." 

15 


226  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Bailey  bestowed  on  his  young  friend  a  sweet  and  beauti- 
ful smile,  though  full  of  sadness ;  for  he  loved  Walter  very 
dearly ;  he  loved  him  because  he  had  saved  his  life,  and  be- 
cause he  resembled  his  sister,  not  only  in  form  and  feature, 
but  in  many  of  his  ways. 

"  No,  no,  not  at  all,"  replied  Bailey,  "  I  like  work ;  it  is 
a  panacea  for  all  trials  and  tribulations.  Work,  dear  Wal- 
ter, is  my  amusement." 

"  But  what  troubles  have  you  now  ?"  asked  Walter. 
"  Surely,  in  your  present  position  as  the  real  head  of  a  great 
banking-house,  with  your  reputation  restored,  beloved  and 
respected  by  all  who  know  you,  your  lot  is  a  happy  one ; 
or  at  least  it  ought  to  be." 

"  Yes,  I  appreciate  it  fully.  Thanks  to  a  kind  Providence 
and  your — your  sister,  I  am  restored  to  an  honorable  position 
among  men." 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  Walter,  "that  I  have  a  favor 
to  ask  of  you,  which  was  the  cause  of  my  bothering  you 
with  my  prattle  at  this  unseasonable  hour.  A  great  actor 
is  going  to  play  lago  to-night,  and  Edith  requested  me  to 
procure  tickets  to  see  him ;  but,  alas !  I  no  sooner  reached 
my  office  this  morning  than  I  find  on  my  desk  a  notice  that 
our  college  society  will  meet  this  evening,  and  I  would  not 
miss  this  meeting  for  a  great  deal.  Last  year,  you  know,  I 
was  in  California ;  and  it  was  only  the  summer  before  rny 
departure  for  San  Francisco  that  I  graduated.  I  am  very 
anxious  to  meet  the  boys.  But  Edith  is  particularly  anxious 
to  see  Mr.  Blank  play  the  character  of  that  subtle  rascal 
lago.  Now  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  would  not  disappoint  my 
dear  '  little  grandmother '  for  the  world ;  and  you  would 
not  have  me  do  it  for  half  the  money  in  this  bank.  Say, 
you  dear  old  boy,  won't  you  do  me  the  favor  of  being  her 
escort  ?  Knowing  what  a  recluse  you  are,  I  would  not  ask 
you,  only  Fawcett  is  now  out  of  town,  and  I  can't  think  of 
any  one  on  whom  I  can  call  just  at  this  moment." 

Bailey's  heart  almost  leaped  into  his  mouth  on  hearing 
this  request.  The  color  rose  to  his  cheeks  and  temples,  and 
he  felt  the  hot  blood  burning  there  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts 
to  hide  his  feelings.  Fortunately  A\ 'alter  did  not  observe 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  227 

his  feelings  or  his  confusion.  The  suspicion  of  love  which 
had  arisen  in  young  Wilde's  mind — cleared  by  the  near  ap- 
proach of  death  on  the  raft  —  had  long  ago  disappeared. 
Impulsive,  generous,  frank  almost  to  a  fault,  Walter  saw  no 
reason  why  George  Bailey,  had  he  loved  his  sister  in  that 
way,  should  not  have  sought  her  long  ago  in  marriage. 

"  Come,  George ;  like  a  good  fellow,  take  my  place.  I 
know  you  never  go  to  the  theatre,  but  go  to-night,  and  you 
will  oblige  me  very  much." 

"  I  shall  only  be  too  delighted,"  replied  Bailey,  "  to  be 
Miss  WTilde's  escort.  You  know  that  I  would  do  anything 
in  the  world  to  give  her  a  moment's  pleasure." 

"Then  it  is  all  settled,  and  I  am  out  of  a  dilemma. 
Thank  you,  George :"  and  away  the  young  man  bounded, 
to  make  the  necessary  preparation  for  the  meeting  of  the 
college  society. 

That  afternoon,  as  Bailey  left  the  bank  a  little  earlier 
than  usual  to  make  preparation  for  the  theatre,  Ego  and 
Doppelganger  had  a  heated  discussion  concerning  their  mu- 
tual behavior.  Ego  argued  the  propriety  of  making  the 
best  use  of  the  opportunity,  for  such  another  might  not 
come  in  years.  His  arguments,  however,  were  ejaculatory 
and  incoherent ;  for  he  was  so  beside  himself  with  joy  at 
the  very  thought  of  sitting  alone  with  Edith  for  three  mor- 
tal hours,  that  he  was  in  no  mood  to  carry  on  an  intellectual 
contest  with  the  cool  and  wary  Doppelganger,  nor  to  be  co- 
erced or  frightened  any  more  by  his  grave  and  austere 
friend.  Doppelganger  checked  Ego — but  not  as  firmly  or 
decidedly  as  usual — and  called  him  "  vain,  foolish,  frivolous, 
light-headed  dreamer,"  etc.,  etc.  To  which  Ego  responded 
by  dragging  Doppelganger  after  him  to  Williamsburgh  and 
back  to  New  York  in  great  haste,  for  fear  he  might  be  late. 

Edith  Wilde's  reception  of  Bailey  was  gracious.  She 
looked  radiant  with  happiness ;  for  she,  too,  like  Ego,  had 
reflected  upon  the  three  hours  alone  by  themselves — all 
alone ! — for  the  first  time  in  their  lives.  Ego,  seeing  this, 
and  perhaps  divining  that  she  would  enjoy  the  three  hours 
very  nearly  as  much  as  himself,  whispered  in  Dop's  ear, 
"  Dop,  you  are  a  goose,  an  owl,  too  wise  and  too  good  to 


228  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

live  long.  I  am  a  rebel  to-night.  I  will  submit  to  your 
iron  rule  no  longer.  I  am  going  to  manage  this  thing  my- 
self." 

Edith  would  have  no  carriage ;  and  so  they  walked  arm- 
in-arm  to  the  theatre,  which  was  about  half  a  mile  distant. 
When  Bailey  felt  her  hand  resting  on  his  arm,  a  thrill  of 
joy  shot  through  his  heart,  such  as  he  had  never  felt  be- 
fore ;  and  when  Edith  felt  her  hand  resting  on  his  strong 
arm  for  the  first  time,  she  enjoyed  a  happiness  truly  and 
purely  exquisite.  What  was  there  in  this  personal  contact 
that  made  them  both  dumb  as  oysters  ?  Ah !  there  was 
no  need  of  words.  There  is  a  language  of  the  heart  that 
speaks  more  eloquently  than  any  silver-tongued  orator,  from 
Demosthenes  down.  Subtle  currents  flowed  to  the  heart 
of  each — electric  currents,  which  contact  set  in  motion — 
giving  each  lover  a  feast  of  joy  worthy  the  gods.  Truly 
has  the  poet  said,  "  Love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love." 

The  lady,  as  usual  in  such  circumstances,  was  the  first  to 
recover  speech. 

"  Mr.  Bailey,  I  am  sorry  that  Walter  gave  you  this  trou- 
ble. You  are  such  a  hermit,  and  are  so  fond  of  your  books, 
that  I  am  vexed  to  think  that  he  should  have  annoyed  you." 

Ah !  Edith,  my  sweet  little  woman,  so  full  of  charity  and 
good  works,  and  so  fond  of  truth  and  integrity,  you  must 
not  begin,  under  the  influence  of  the  grand  passion,  to  tell 
"  fibs,"  however  innocent  they  may  appear ;  for  you  know 
in  your  heart  that  George  Bailey  is  only  too  happy  to  be 
near  you,  and  you  now  feel  his  strong  arm  shake  with  emo- 
tion beneath  your  gentle  touch. 

"  Annoyed  me !  Vexed  me !"  said  Bailey,  absently. 
"  Pshaw  !  You  must  know  that  my  life  is  at  your  service. 
I  owe  everything  to  your  goodness." 

"  Mr.  Bailey,  no  more  of  that,  if  you  please.  I  am  sure 
the  little  obligation — and  what  was  it  ?  a  word  in  favor  of 
a  badly-used  man — would  have  been  done  for  x,  y,  or  z,  or 
any  other  unknown  human  quantity ;  how  much  sooner, 
then,  for  the  son  of  my  particular  friend  !  It  was  nothing ; 
and  whatever  it  was,  you  have  repaid  us  a  thousand-fold  in 
the  preservation  of  my  brother." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  229 

"  As  you  say,  Miss  Wilde,  no  more  of  that.  Walter  af- 
terward did  as  much  for  me,  so  that  the  benefits  were  mu- 
tual and  reciprocal." 

There  was  another  interval  of  silence  which  brought  them 
all  too  soon  to  the  doors  of  the  theatre ;  and  when  they 
had  taken  their  seats,  they  did  not  speak  another  word  for 
at  least  twenty  minutes.  The  lovers  were  supremely  happy 
together,  and  it  was  better  that  they  should  enjoy  their 
happiness  unalloyed  with  speech. 

"  That '  star,'  as  he  is  called,  dresses  superbly,"  remarked 
Bailey  at  the  close  of  the  first  act.  "  He  gives  his  lago  a 
touch  of  Mephistopheles  in  that  pointed  beard  and  mus- 
tache, and  in  the  peculiar  cut  of  his  hat,  and  in  his  general 
carriage ;  but  that  is  not  the  lago  of  Shakspeare.  His 
voice  is  rich,  mellow,  sonorous,  but  singularly  lacking  in 
passion.  He  but  mimics  the  passion  of  revenge ;  he  feels 
it  not.  Ah,  Miss  Wilde,  if  that  actor  had  heard  me  vow 
vengeance  in  my  dark  cell  to  the  bare  walls,  until  my  voice 
grew  so  husky  that  it  almost  frightened  my  own  ear,  he 
would  know  something  of  that  passion  which,  next  to  envy 
— yes,  perhaps  even  more  than  envy — makes  us  truly  mis- 
erable." 

"  Can  we  never  comprehend  a  passion  until  we  have  felt 
it  ?"  asked  Edith. 

"  As  a  rule  we  cannot,"  replied  Bailey.  "  There  are  a 
few  rare  exceptions — men  of  genius,  like  the  writer  of  this 
play — who  seem  to  know  all  passions  by  intuition.  But 
this  '  star '  is  simply  an  artist,  or  rather,  I  should  say  an  ar- 
tificer. He  tries  to  make  up  by  art  what  he  lacks  in  genius." 

"  But  you  must  admit,"  replied  Edith,  "  that  it  is  art 
of  the  highest  order ;  so  high,  indeed,  as  almost  to  equal 
genius." 

"  Art  of  the  highest  order  will  please  the  mass  of  man- 
kind far  more  than  genius,  and  is  therefore  in  many  respects 
preferable." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,  Mr.  Bailey." 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  continued  Bailey,  "  that  true  genius 
cannot  be  comprehended  except  by  those  who  possess  a  lit- 
tle of  it  themselves.  This  man  who  plays  lago  never  for- 


230  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

gets  himself  for  a  moment,  and  therefore  is  never  lost  in 
his  work.  He  poses ;  he  uses  the  muscles  of  his  face  and 
eyes  with  great  effect.  If  you  should  see  him  to-morrow 
night  in  Hamlet  or  Richelieu,  you  would  see  the  same  man, 
only  in  a  different  dress,  and  speaking  a  different  piece." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Bailey,  you  are  a  critic." 

"  No,  no ;  I  have  not  been  to  the  theatre  since  I  was  a 
boy,"  hastily  replied  Bailey.  "  But  in  the  portraiture  of 
this  passion,  I  can  say,  with  the  poet,  '  We  learn  in  suffer- 
ing what  we  teach  in  song.'  I  understand  the  passion  of 
revenge  infinitely  better  than  that  actor,  because  I  have 
groaned  under  it.  Adversity  and  suffering  are  excellent 
school-masters,  though  their  rattans  do  excoriate  one's  flesh 
so  dreadfully." 

"  But,  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  Edith,  with  great  sympathy  in 
her  tone,  "  all  that  is  past  and  gone :  you  have  put  revenge 
under  your  feet.  If  it  be  God's  will  to  punish  the  wrong- 
doer, let  him  do  it.  Vengeance  is  his,  not  yours." 

"  I  have  tried  to  follow  your  advice ;  and  already  I  have 
given  a  promise  not  to  prosecute  the  fiend  who  tried  to 
destroy  me." 

This  conversation  was  carried  on  in  the  intervals  between 
the  first  and  second,  and  between  the  second  and  third  acts. 

"  I  fear,"  continued  Bailey,  "  that  this  actor  has  been 
petted  and  spoiled  by  young  ladies.  I  noticed  many  of 
them  smiling  admiringly  on  him ;  and  when  he  makes  his 
best  hits,  I  perceive  that  his  eyes  turn  toward  them  uncon- 
sciously for  approval.  Did  you  observe  the  gross  exagger- 
ation of  his  facial  expression  in  the  last  act  ?  Why  he  act- 
ually made  us  laugh,  and  this  laughter  was  the  worst  possi- 
ble commentary  on  his  acting. " 

"  Then  you  think,"  said  Edith,  "  that  it  would  be  better 
to  read  Shakspeare,  and  rest  content  with  our  mental  pict- 
ures? There;  see  that  Othello  trying  to  delineate  the  pas- 
sion of  love,  of  which  he  knows  nothing !  Look  at  that 
Desdemona!  Her  love  seems  as  if  it  had  caught  St.  Titus' s 
dance,  and  could  not  keep  still  to  save  its  life." 

"  Miss  Wilde,  you  will  find  that  your  conceptions  of 
Shakspeare's  characters  are  infinitely  better  than  these  on 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  231 

that  stage.  Just  look  at  that  great  lumbering  fellow  roaring 
and  bellowing  with  love  and  jealousy  ;  and  he  feels  no  more 
of  either  passion  than  do  the  boards  on  which  he  stamps 
his  huge  feet." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  Edith,  "  that  you  are  hard 
to  please." 

"No,  no,  not  at  all.  I've  had  a  habit  of  talking  to  my- 
self, and  criticising  things,  to  keep  my  mind  from  rusting. 
These  grand  tragedies  have  a  special  charm  for  me ;  for,  in 
fact,  my  own  life  has  been  a  sad,  sad  tragedy ;  and  just  as 
Walter  and  I,  after  our  own  disaster,  took  a  keen  pleasure 
in  reading  '  shipwrecks  at  sea,'  so  I  take  delight  in  reading 
these  magnificent  plays  ;  for  I  find  all  crimes,  all  virtues,  all 
passions,  all  joys,  and  all  sorroAvs  delineated  in  them." 

They  walked  home  from  the  theatre  almost  in  silence, 
each  acknowledging  to  his  or  her  heart  that  the  evening 
had  been  delightfully  spent.  Their  hearts  were  too  full 
for  utterance.  There  is  a  rapture  of  the  soul  which  no  lan- 
guage can  express ;  and  there  is  an  ecstasy  of  delight  which 
causes  a  kind  of  precious  physical  pain. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  and  rest  for  a  moment  ?"  asked 
Edith. 

"  Rest !  Rest !"  replied  Bailey,  absently.  "  After  this  I 
must  walk  fast,  or  run ;  I  could  neither  sit  nor  rest." 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  come  in  and  wait  a  few  mo- 
ments, until  Walter  returns  from  his  meeting.  He  will  de- 
sire to  thank  you  for  your  self-denial  in  taking  his  place  as 
my  escort." 

"  Miss  Wilde,  I  told  you  before — that  is,  if  I  really  re- 
member what  I  did  say — that  this  has  been  the  happiest 
evening  of  my  life !"  Bailey's  tone  of  voice  was  just  a 
shade  irritable ;  and  as  it  fell  on  her  ear,  Edith  laughed  a 
low  musical  laugh,  and  gayly  said, 

"  Politeness,  Mr.  Bailey  !  politeness !  What  else  would 
you  say  to  a  lady  in  whose  society  you  had  spent  the  whole 
evening?  Have  you  not  seemed  to  shun  our  house  for  a 
long  time  ?  Even  now  you  are  in  such  a  hurry  to  be  off 
that  you  will  hardly  remain  until  the  servant  opens  the 
door."  This  was  uttered  in  a  light,  bantering  tone  on  the 


232  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

stoop.  Edith  knew  that  but  for  the  fact  of  his  being  an 
ex-convict,  he  would  have  declared  his  love  long  ago ;  she 
knew  that  he  was  sad  and  lonely,  and  that  the  fear  that  he 
might  lose  her  was  making  him  miserable.  She  assumed  a 
light  tone  of  raillery,  in  order  to  make  him  feel  more  at 
ease  in  her  presence.  All  that  womanly  modesty  would 
permit  she  did  to  level  whatever  social  distinction  yet  re- 
mained between  them.  A  moody  sadness  had  taken  pos- 
session of  the  mind  of  Bailey,  and  Edith  found  it  difficult 
to  rally  him  out  of  it. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Bailey,  rather  ungraciously,  "  I'll  walk 
in  and  wait  until  Walter  comes  home." 

No  man  could  have  comprehended  Bailey's  moody  irri- 
tation ;  but  almost  any  woman  could,  and  Edith  understood 
it  perfectly. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  not  come  in,"  replied  Edith ; 
"  your  tone  of  acquiescence  is  anything  but  gracious.  Mr. 
Bailey,  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  you  are  getting  a  little  irri- 
table." 

"  Irritable  !  Irritable !  and  with  you  ?"  Bailey  uttered 
this  like  one  in  a  dream. 

The  expression  of  Edith  Wilde's  face  would  have  been 
a  study  for  a  metaphysical  painter.  The  love  of  such  a 
woman  has  always  something  of  the  self-sacrificing  unself- 
ishness of  the  mother  in  it.  She  felt  that  this  great  strong 
man  would  hide  his  adoration  of  her  through  a  sense  of 
profound  respect,  even  if  it  broke  his  heart. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "you  have  been  irritated  at  my 
nonsense ;  for  since  we  reached  the  house  your  tone  has 
been  abstracted  and  unkind." 

"  Unkind  ?     Unkind  to  you  ?" 

George  Bailey  was  greatly  agitated.  Ego  and  Doppel- 
ganger  were  holding  a  "  battle  royal,"  and  for  the  last  few 
minutes  the  latter  had  frightened  the  former,  and  both  were 
ready  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat.  Ego  longed  to  take  advan- 
tage of  his  present  opportunity,  and  Doppelganger,  cool 
and  logical,  was  warning  him  against  such  "  nonsense." 
The  touch  of  her  hand  was  still  thrilling  his  whole  frame, 
and  his  heart  was  on  fire. 


GEORGE   BAILEY.  233 

"Unkind?  Unkind  to  you?"  he  repeated.  "Edith— I 
beg  pardon  —  Miss  Wilde,  I  mean  ;"  and  Bailey  ran  his  fin- 
gers through  his  hair  like  a  man  who  was  slightly  dazed. 

"  Go  on,  please ;  let  it  be  Edith." 

They  were  now  sitting  face  to  face  on  opposite  ends  of 
a  sofa. 

"  I — I  beg  pardon,  Miss  Wilde,  but  really  my  head  swims, 
and  I  am  a  little  confused.  I  meant  to  say  that  you  are 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  whom  I  could  be  unkind  in 
word,  thought,  or  deed." 

Bailey  looked  into  her  face  and  into  her  large  gray-blue 
eyes,  wide-open  and  weird,  and  saw  there,  below  the  fun, 
the  laughter,  the  raillery,  the  great  fountain  of  love  which 
welled  up  for  him  from  the  heart  of  this  pure,  good  wom- 
an. In  a  moment  he  arose  to  his  feet  and  seized  both  her 
hands.  His  eye  was  dark  and  wild  with  passion. 

"  Edith  Wilde !  Edith  Wilde  !  I  love  you— I  adore  you 
— I  worship  you  !  You  have  been,  since  the  first  day  I 
saw  you,  my  thought  by  day,  my  dream  by  night !  I  saw 
these  eyes  on  the  raft.  I  saw  this  smile  when  death  stared 
me  in  the  face.  You  succored  my  mother,  you  rescued  me. 
You  have  been  my  good  angel.  You  have  brought  me  back 
to  my  God.  Oh,  how  I  love  you !  Do  not  be  offended — 
please  do  not !  I  struggled  hard  against  avowing  my  pas- 
sion ;  but  I  cannot  help  it." 

The  fun,  the  laughter  left  Edith's  face.  Tears  of  sympa- 
thy, of  joy,  of  love,  coursed  each  other  down  her  cheeks,  as 
she  said, 

"  I  am  not  offended  ;  do  you  think  that  I  have  not  seen 
your  love  for  a  long,  long  time — almost  from  the  first  time 
we  met  ?  If  it  is  any  pleasure  for  you  to  know  it,  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  confess  that  my  love  for  you  dates  very  nearly 
as  far  back  as  yours  for  me.  I  knew  and  loved  your  moth- 
er. She  had  made  me  familiar  with  your  character  and 
your  wrongs  long  before  I  saw  you.  I  pitied  you  ;  and  the 
poet  says  that  '  pity  is  akin  to  love.' " 

In  some  unaccountable  way  they  were  no  longer  at  op- 
posite ends  of  the  sofa ;  on  the  contrary,  they  were  close 
together  at  her  end  of  it,  with  her  head  resting  on  his  shoul- 


234  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

dev  and  their  hands  clasped.  George  !  Edith  !  clasp  hands 
firmly,  lovingly  ;  gaze  down  deep  into  each  other's  eyes  in 
a  vain  endeavor  to  fathom  illimitable  love ;  enjoy  this  hour 
•while  ye  may  ;  for  if  ye  both  should  live  ten  thousand  years, 
ye  will  never  drink  such  another  ecstatic  cup  of  unalloyed 
bliss. 

The  bell  rung ;  and  at  the  sound,  for  some  reason  inex- 
plicable, Bailey  withdrew  to  his  own  end  of  the  sofa.  Will 
some  one  inform  us  why  love  always  imparts,  even  to  the 
most  innocent,  a  cunning,  adroit  hypocrisy  ? 

\Yalter  came  into  the  parlor  hastily,  and  sung  out,  in  his 
usual  frank  manner,  "  Halloo,  George !  have  you  got  back  ? 
Ha,  Edith !  how  did  you  enjoy  Othello  ?"  As  the  young 
man  spoke,  he  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  saw 
George  confused,  and  Edith  with  the  bright  roses  on  her 
cheek.  During  the  desultory  conversation  that  followed 
his  entrance,  Walter  wondered  if,  after  all,  they  would  make 
a  match  of  it. 

On  his  way  home  that  night  George  Bailey  walked  as  if 
he  had  wings :  he  was  in  a  heaven  of  heavens.  Edith  loved 
him  !  Could  it  be  true  ?  Was  he  dreaming  ?  He  felt  his 
body  and  pinched  his  flesh,  to  be  certain  that  he  was  awake. 
He  was  afraid  that  he  would  suddenly  awake  and  find  it  all 
a  dream.  "Ah!"  said  George  to  himself,  "blessed  impris- 
onment, that  made  such  a  love  as  this  possible,  and  saved 
me  from  that  ghost  of  a  love — that  false,  will-o'-the-wisp  of 
a  love  for  Grace  Van  Hess !" 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"  Beyond  the  infinite  and  boundless  reach 
Of  mercy,  if  thou  didst  this  deed  of  death, 
Art  thou  damned." — SHAKSPEARE. 

MTRON  FINCH,  dressed  in  his  greasy  and  tattered  clothes, 
and  looking  the  picture  of  sin  and  misery,  went,  on  the 
evening  of  the  day  appointed,  to  receive  from  Mr.  Van  Hess 
the  nine  hundred  dollars  which  he  had  promised  to  give 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  235 

him  as  hush-money.  Finch  had  been  drinking  a  good 
deal  of  hard  liquor  since  morning,  but  he  was  by  no  means 
drunk.  His  limbs,  it  is  true,  shook  somewhat,  and  his 
hands  trembled  a  little  more  than  usual,  but  his  brain  was 
clear  and  active  as  ever.  On  his  way  to  the  house  of  Mr. 
Van  Hess,  he  was  reflecting  what  he  would  do  with  the 
money.  He  concluded  that  he  would  demand  another 
thousand  dollars,  and  with  the  whole  amount  commence 
the  liquor  business,  as  the  one  most  likely  to  give  a  speedy 
profit  on  the  capital  invested.  Timothy  Quin  had  grown 
rich  on  less,  and  why  should  not  he,  Myron  Finch,  whose 
education  and  talents  were  vastly  superior  to  Quin's,  make 
a  large  fortune  in  the  trade  ? 

Finch  ascended  the  stoop,  glanced  cautiously  up  and 
down  the  street,  and  then  rung  the  bell.  Mr.  Van  Hess, 
knowing  who  it  was  that  rung,  opened  the  door  himself, 
and  asked  his  unwelcome  visitor  to  step  quietly  into  the 
small  library  off  the  back-parlor.  He  was  anxious  to  hide 
the  fact  of  the  visit  from  all  in  the  house ;  and  he  had  al- 
ready informed  his  daughter  that  a  man  would  call  in  the 
evening  on  particular  business,  and  that  on  no  account  must 
he  be  disturbed.  When  they  had  reached  the  library,  Finch 
introduced  the  subject  by  saying,  in  a  cool,  cynical  tone, 

"Well,  old  gentleman,  have  you  the  money  which  you 
promised  me  last  week  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  give  you  any  money  or 
not.  That  promise  was  exacted  under  duress,  and  is  not 
binding.  Besides,  you  have  been  drinking ;  and  if  I  have 
any  money  to  spare,  it  will  help  to  support  your  helpless 
children." 

Finch  looked  at  Mr.  Van  Hess  with  a  sly,  ugly,  menacing 
eye,  and  measuring  the  feeble  old  gentleman,  and  remem- 
bering his  dread  of  losing  his  "respectability,"  saw  that 
he  must  assume  the  r61e  of  a  disreputable  bully,  and  per- 
form the  part  of  a  low  ruffian,  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 

"  See  here,  old  man,  I  did  not  come  here  to  listen  to  a 
temperance  lecture,  nor  yet  a  sermon  on  duty  ;  I  came  here 
to  get  the  money  you  promised  me ;  and  if  you  don't  hand 
it  out  it  will  be  bad  for  you.  Your  last  remark  will  cost 


236  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

you  just  another  thousand  dollars.  Now  listen  to  me,  and 
pay  attention.  I'll  charge  you  five  hundred  dollars  for 
every  five  minutes'  delay." 

Finch  had  learned  his  lesson  from  Quin  only  too  well, 
even  to  the  assumption  of  that  worthy's  manner  and  tone, 
minus  the  mellifluous  brogue.  The  effect  of  this  speech 
was  as  Finch  expected.  Mr.  Van  Hess  raised  his  eyes  to 
heaven  and  prayed  inwardly:  "O  God!  why  didst  thou 
permit  such  a  villain,  such  a  heartless  villain  as  this,  to  de- 
stroy my  child's  happiness  and  my  own  peace  of  mind ;  to 
consign  the  noble  George  Bailey  to  State-prison ;  and  to 
ruin  my  property  and  my  business?  But  Thy  will  be 
done." 

Finch,  perceiving  by  the  attitude  of  Mr.  Van  Hess,  as 
well  as  by  the  movement  of  his  lips,  what  the  old  gentle- 
man was  doing,  said,  in  the  most  brutal  and  irritating  tone 
possible, 

"  Now  loot  here,  I  want  no  praying  or  preaching ;  I  had 
enough  of  that  when  I  was  your  clerk.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Then  I  played  pretty  well  the  religious  dodge — carried  re- 
ligious books  and  papers  to  catch  your  pious  old  eye,  to 
supplant  Bailey  as  head-clerk,  and  win  the  charming  Grace 
for  a  wife.  Religion,  like  fire,  is  a  good  servant  but  a  hard 
master,  and  I'll  none  of  it.  By-the-way,  how  is  the  lovely 
Grace  ?  Has  she  set  her  cap  yet  for  banker  Bailey  ?" 

"  Silence,  fiend !  Do  your  worst.  I'll  brave  public  opin- 
ion. Better  anything  than  this.  Here !  behold  these  pa- 
pers, the  evidence  of  your  forgery,  which  will  consign  you 
to  prison  for  life !  Give  you  money,  eh  ?  I'll  give  you 
into  the  hands  of  the  police." 

Mr.  Van  Hess,  maddened  at  the  brutal  allusion  to  his  be- 
loved daughter,  arose  from  his  chair  in  a  towering  passion, 
pulled  the  practice  -  forgery  papers  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
flourished  them  above  his  head.  Finch,  fearing  that  Mr. 
Van  Hess  was  about  to  ring  the  bell  and  summon  aid,  also 
arose,  and  confronting  the  angry  man,  seized  his  wrist,  and 
hissed  into  his  ear,  "  Stir  one  step,  utter  one  word,  and 
I'll  strangle  you !"  The  old  gentleman  was  in  the  act  of 
stretching  out  his  hand  to  the  bell-cord,  when  Finch,  still 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  237 

holding  the  wrist  of  the  hand  that  held  the  papers,  buried 
his  right  hand  in  the  throat  of  Mr.  Van  Hess.  The  word 
help  died  away  on  the  lips  of  Van  Hess.  "  Hand  me  those 
papers,  blast  you !"  Finch  hissed  in  a  fearful  whisper. 

Whether  from  the  unusual  excitement,  or  from  the  chok- 
ing, the  head  of  Mr.  Van  Hess  fell  over  partly  toward  his 
left  shoulder,  his  eyes  closed,  his  face  grew  livid,  and  he 
became  unconscious.  While  the  old  man  was  in  this  con- 
dition Finch  gathered  up  the  practice-forgery  papers,  which 
had  been  scattered  over  the  floor  during  the  struggle ;  he 
also  picked  his  pocket  of  the  nine  hundred  dollars. 

"  Ha !"  whispered  Finch,  "  if  he  awakes  I  am  ruined ! 
But  he  must  never  wake !"  He  listened  attentively  at  the 
door ;  all  was  still  as  the  grave ;  he  opened  the  door  a  few 
inches,  then  a  little  wider,  and  stole  into  the  hall  on  tiptoe ; 
not  a  sound  could  he  hear.  Re-entering  the  library,  he 
stood  over  Mr.  Van  Hess  until  an  occasional  sigh  warned 
him  of  returning  consciousness.  He  placed  his  fingers  at 
first  gently  on  the  old  gentleman's  throat,  and  held  his 
hand  over  his  mouth  and  nose ;  he  pressed  harder  and 
harder ;  he  pressed  his  neck  before  and  behind.  Mr.  Van 
Hess  gave  a  few  convulsive  struggles,  and  all  was  over.  He 
was  strangled  to  death  by  his  son-in-law,  Mr.  Myron  Finch ! 

Finch  placed  his  dirty  hand  on  the  heart  of  the  murdered 
man,  felt  his  wrist  for  the  pulse,  and  placed  his  ear  against 
his  bosom ;  and  when  he  found  that  he  was  really  dead,  a 
fear  such  as  he  had  never  felt  before  shot  through  every 
fibre  of  his  frame;  his  body  shook  like  an  aspen  leaf,  and 
great  drops  of  perspiration  stood  out  like  beads  on  his 
brow,  and  ran  in  streams  down  his  face.  For  a  minute  or 
two  he  stood  fascinated  over  his  victim,  as  if  he  were  par- 
alyzed, and  stared  at  the  wide-open,  glassy  eyes  of  the  dead 
man.  By  a  great  effort  of  his  will — for  Finch  was  now  so- 
bered— he  turned  away  from  the  horrid  sight,  thrust  the 
papers  and  the  money  hastily  into  his  pocket,  and  stepped 
stealthily  into  the  hall.  He  encountered  none  of  the  fam- 
ily ;  for  Grace  Finch  and  her  children  were  on  the  floor 
above,  and  the  servant  on  the  floor  below.  He  passed  out 
of  the  hall-door,  which  he  softly  closed  behind  him,  and 


238  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

reached  the  street ;  but  he  had  not  gone  three  yards  before 
he  met  the  very  officer  whom  Susie,  the  servant,  had  brought 
just  one  week  ago.  The  policeman  eyed  him  very  sharply, 
and  said,  "  You  here  again  ?  I  must  warn  Mr.  Van  Hess." 
To  this  remark  Finch  made  no  reply,  and  hurried  on  as 
fast  as  his  trembling  limbs  would  permit.  As  soon  as  he 
reached  his  low  lodging  he  retired  to  his  room  by  a  side- 
door,  unseen  by  any  one,  undressed,  tied  up  the  greasy,  tat- 
tered clothes  in  an  old  red  handkerchief,  put  on  the  second- 
hand suit  which  he  had  bought  with  the  money  that  Quin 
gave  him,  stole  down  the  stairs  into  the  yard,  and  threw  the 
bundle  with  the  tell-tale  forgery  papers  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  sink.  He  returned  to  his  room  as  noiselessly  as  he 
had  left  it.  He  then  undressed  a  second  time,  and  tying 
an  old  torn  silk  handkerchief  around  his  head,  got  into  his 
bed  and  shut  his  eyes,  pretending  even  to  himself  that  he 
was  asleep ;  but,  changing  his  mind,  he  began  to  groan  as 
if  in  great  pain.  This  groaning,  as  he  had  anticipated, 
brought  the  landlady  to  inquire  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  oh !  I  am  suffering  fearfully  !  I  have  been 
lying  here  in  agony  for  two  or  three  hours,  and  not  a  soul 
to  help  me  !  Won't  you  please  send  for  a  doctor  ?  Oh ! 
oh  !  oh  !  this  is  torture !  It  appears  an  age  since  tea-time. 
What  time  is  it? — Nine,  eh?  Here  I  have  been  groaning 
since  six.  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  this  pain  is  intolerable  !" 

By-and-by  the  doctor  entered  the  room,  laid  his  hat  and 
black  kid  gloves  carefully  on  the  single  table  which  the 
room  contained,  put  his  gold-headed  cane  cautiously  in  the 
corner,  so  that  it  could  not  fall  and  be  injured,  sat  on  a 
chair  beside  the  bed,  placed  his  right  leg  over  his  left,  lift- 
ing it  with  both  hands  as  though  he  had  a  great  affection 
for  it.  He  smiled  the  blandest  smile,  and  wore  the  wisest 
expression  of  face.  He  placed  his  thin,  delicate  fingers  on 
the  patient's  wrist  and  looked  at  his  tongue.  All  this  time 
Finch  was  uttering  low  moans. 

"  It  is  nothing,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  little  doctor,  "  but 
an  undue  afflux  of  the  sanguineous  fluid  toward  the  abdom- 
inal (from  the  Latin  abdo,  I  hide)  regions,  which  has  caused 
congestion.  I  shall  give  you  a  dovers-powder  to-night,  and 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  239 

to-morrow  I  shall  have  you  transported  (porto,  I  carry)  to 
my  office,  and  place  you  in  my  receiver,  which  is  the  pana- 
cea (from  the  Greek,  meaning  all  cure)  for  all  the  diseases 
appertaining  to  the  circulation." 

The  little  doctor  had  got  as  far  as  abdominal  (from  abdo, 
I  hide),  when  Finch,  in  the  middle  of  his  moans,  gave  a 
slight  and  almost  imperceptible  start  (which  might  have 
been  one  of  pain),  as  he  recognized  in  the  person  of  the 
speaker  his  old  friend  and  former  teacher,  Washington 
Scroggs.  Of  course,  our  amiable  little  quack  had  not  the 
faintest  idea  that  the  degraded  wretch,  groaning  and  moan- 
ing with  pretended  pain,  for  whom  he  was  prescribing,  was 
no  other  than  the  subtle  youth  who  had  supplanted  him 
nearly  twenty  years  ago. 

The  doctor  carefully  lifted  his  right  leg  with  both  his 
hands,  as  before,  and  laid  it  on  the  floor,  arose  from  his 
chair,  took  his  gloves  and  put  them  on  with  great  cir- 
cumspection, placed  his  hat  on  his  head  and  his  cane  in 
his  right  hand,  looked  supremely  wise  and  philanthropic, 
smiled  his  blandest  toward  Finch,  and  remarked,  as  he  bow- 
ed himself  out  of  the  room,  "  My  receiver  is  the  grand 
panacea." 

When  he  was  once  more  alone,  Finch  muttered  to  him- 
self, "  What  in  the  name  of  the  foul  fiend  brought  that 
little  school  -  master  here,  of  all  men  in  the  world,  when  I 
shall  want,  perhaps,  his  evidence  to  enable  me  to  prove  an 
alibi?  He  would  naturally  be  very  unfriendly  to  me." 
Finch  sat  up  in  bed  and  leaned  his  head  against  his  hand, 
and  brought  all  the  powers  of  his  mind  to  bear  on  his  case. 
He  reflected  that  from  the  time  of  the  murder  until  he  was 
found  groaning  by  his  landlady  not  more  than  twenty  min- 
utes had  elapsed.  In  the  midst  of  his  sufferings  he  had  in- 
formed the  woman  that  it  was  nine  o'clock,  when  he  knew 
that  it  was  at  least  half-past  nine.  Mr.  Van  Hess  had  been 
strangled  to  death  at  ten  minutes  past  nine  o'clock ;  for 
Finch  distinctly  remembered  looking  at  the  beautiful  clock 
which  had  once  ornamented  the  mantel-piece  of  his  own 
luxurious  bedroom,  and  noticing  that,  in  the  altercation,  he 
and  the  old  gentleman  were  wasting  time.  Myron  Finch 


240  GEORGE  BAIEEY. 

knew  that  a  human  life  often  depended  upon  so  small  a 
matter  as  accounting  for  twenty  minutes ;  and  he  consoled 
himself  that  his  pretended  sickness  would  settle,  in  a  court 
of  justice,  a  satisfactory  alibi.  Mr.  Van  Hess,  he  thought, 
might  not  be  discovered  until  morning ;  certainly  not  until 
his  usual  hour  of  retiring,  which  could  not  be  before  ten 
o'clock,  and  might  be  as  late  as  eleven.  He  was  more 
afraid  of  the  policeman.  Well,  he  would  simply  deny  that 
he  was  the  man.  But  yet  the  words,  "  You  here  again  •'' 
filled  him  with  fear;  for  this  evidence  would  certainly  bring 
in  the  servant-girl  as  a  witness,  who  had  seen  him  on  the 
occasion  of  his  first  visit  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Van  Hess. 
Finch  arose,  and  walked  backward  and  forward  through  the 
limits  of  his  narrow  room :  sometimes  he  stood  still  and 
tapped  his  forehead,  as  if  to  summon  all  his  powers  of  in- 
tellect ;  and  at  other  times  he  sat  on  the  side  of  his  bed  in 
a  state  of  mind  bordering  on  distraction,  as  his  vivid  imag- 
ination pictured  himself  dangling  from  a  rope.  Then  he 
thought  of  the  practice-forgery  papers.  Evidently  Mr.  Van 
Hess  had  obtained  them  from  John  Grady ;  but  still  he  may 
not  have  told  why  he  wanted  them,  for  the  old  gentleman 
was  anxious  to  hide  the  fact  of  his,  Finch's,  return  to  the 
city.  But  Finch  realized  that  his  safety  hinged  on  a  mo- 
tive; and  if  ever  those  papers  were  found  the  motive  for 
the  murder  was  apparent.  What  if  Bailey  had  given  up 
the  papers  to  Van  Hess  ?  The  very  thought  of  this  caused 
the  cold  perspiration  to  break  out  afresh,  and  run  in  streams 
down  his  flabby,  brick-colored  face.  Again  he  arose  and 
peered  into  the  yard,  as  if  to  be  certain  that  the  detectives 
were  not  fishing  up  the  fatal  papers ;  then  he  cursed  him- 
self for  a  fool  for  not  finding  the  means  of  burning  these 
papers,  and  so  put  an  end  to  all  his  doubts  and  fears.  He 
had  almost  made  up  his  mind  to  steal  down  stairs  and  fish 
up  the  bundle  and  burn  them — but  where  and  how?  He 
might  burn  the  papers  but  not  the  clothes.  He  had  started 
for  the  door,  but  some  noise,  perhaps  the  creaking  of  the 
old  floor,  frightened  and  deterred  him.  He  lay  down  again, 
weak  and  livid  with  fear.  "Fool !  fool !  why  did  I  kill  him  ? 
Anything  but  this.  Murder  will  out ;  I  know  it  will.  I'll 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  241 

be  hanged !  I  know  I'll  be  hanged !  I  see  a  chain  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  that  would  hang  a  man  twice  over. 
Fool !  fool !  why  did  I  kill  him  ?"  And  still  the  burden  of 
his  thoughts  was,  "  Fool !  fool !  why  did  I  kill  him  ?"  He 
now  imagined  that  every  step  which  he  heard  in  the  street 
was  an  officer  of  the  law  coming  to  arrest  him.  His  hear- 
ing became  preternaturally  acute ;  his  nerves  were  complete- 
ly unstrung ;  he  tumbled  and  tossed  on  his  bed  like  the 
wreck  of  some  ship  in  the  trough  of  the  sea;  he  heaped 
imprecations  on  the  heads  of  all  whom  he  had  ever  known  ; 
and  he  kept  muttering,  in  an  agony  of  fear,  "  Fool !  fool ! 
why  did  I  kill  him  ?" 

Finch  then  threw  himself  on  his  face  and  wept — wept  as 
he  had  not  done  since  he  was  a  baby  in  his  mother's  arms ; 
that  is  to  say,  if  such  babies  as  he  was  ever  do  weep  or 
smile.  No  tear  did  this  man  shed  for  his  many  crimes ; 
his  tears  were  all  for  his  own  cowardly  self.  Not  one 
touch  of  pity  had  he  for  the  weak  old  man  lying  dead  up- 
town, whom  he  had  foully  murdered,  without  giving  him 
so  much  as  one  minute  to  utter  a  single  prayer  for  the  sal- 
vation of  his  immortal  soul.  No,  no,  all  Myron  Finch's 
pity  was  for  Myron  Finch's  self. 

A  thought  struck  him  :  he  sprung  to  his  feet,  put  on  his 
clothes,  and  stole  stealthily  down  the  stairs  and  out  on  the 
street.  He  sought  a  drug-store.  He  was  now  respectably 
dressed  in  the  second-hand  suit  of  half-worn  black  which 
he  had  purchased  about  a  week  ago.  "  I  want  some  strych- 
nine to  kill  rats."  The  clerk  at  first  demurred,  but  finally 
gave  it.  He  hurried  back  to  his  room,  undressed,  and  went 
to  bed.  He  then  carefully  counted  his  money  and  hid  it 
between  the  cloth  and  the  lining  of  his  coat;  the  poison 
he  bound  up  in  a  piece  of  paper  and  pinned  in  the  centre 
of  a  black  silk  handkerchief,  which  he  tied  around  his 
neck. 

These  acts  had  given  him  a  short  respite  from  his  worst 
fears.  An  intense  desire  to  run  away,  to  fly  from  the  city, 
and  to  put  as  many  miles  of  land  and  sea  as  he  possibly 
could  between  himself  and  the  murdered  man,  seized  him ; 
and  it  required  all  his  power  of  will  to  force  himself  to  re- 

16 


242  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

main  where  he  was,  as  the  best  place  to  escape  detection. 
Yet  the  little  room  seemed  to  suffocate  him.  He  wondered 
if  all  men  in  his  condition  wanted  to  run.  He  could  not 
rest  or  sleep :  he  went  to  the  window  and  raised  the  sash, 
though  the  night  was  intensely  cold ;  he  looked  out  and 
upward,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  very  stars  had  a 
knowledge  of  his  crime,  for  they  appeared  to  him,  in  their 
steely  hardness,  to  look  cruelly  at  him.  Then  he  thought 
that  some  invisible  power  was  causing  the  dingy  walls  of 
his  room  to  close  in  upon  and  destroy  him ;  and  he  actually 
shuddered  as  he  fancied  that  the  apartment  was  becoming 
smaller  and  smaller.  He  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  like  a 
frightened  animal,  with  his  lips  apart  and  bis  teeth  chatter- 
ing, his  thin  hair  almost  on  end,  and  the  great  drops  of 
agony  standing  out  on  his  pale  forehead ;  and  still  he  kept 
mattering,  "  Fool !  fool !  why  did  I  kill  him  ?" 

Yes,  Myron  Finch,  if  the  truth  were  known,  every  mur- 
derer, from  Cain  down  to  yourself,  has  given  himself  this 
very  epithet  of  "  fool,"  and  has  asked  that  very  question  in 
an  agony  of  fear,  "  Why  did  I  kill  him  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"  Go,  prick  thy  face  and  over-red  thy  fear. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Death  of  thy  soul !  Those  linen  cheeks  of  thine  are  counsellors  of 
fear." — SHAKSPEARE. 

"  Women,  ever  in  extremes,  are  always  either  better  or  worse  than 
men." — LA  BRUTERE. 

THE  next  morning  the  newspapers  teemed  with  accounts 
of  the  murder  of  Jacob  Van  Hess.  He  was  found  dead  in 
his  library,  at  half-past  ten  o'clock,  by  his  daughter,  who, 
wondering  at  the  cause  of  his  delay  in  bolting  the  doors 
and  fastening  the  windows,  and  thinking  that  perhaps  he 
had  fallen  asleep,  went  down-stairs  to  see  for  herself ;  and 
found  her  father,  half  reclining  and  half  sitting,  stiff  and 
stark  in  his  chair.  The  opinion  of  the  physician  who  had 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  243 

been  sent  for,  was  that  Mr.  Van  Hess  had  been  dead  two 
hours.  Black-and-blue  finger-marks  were  found  on  his 
throat;  and  his  shirt,  his  collar,  his  cravat,  and  his  clothing- 
all  showed  evidence  of  a  severe  struggle.  His  watch,  jew- 
ellery, and  pocket-book,  containing  between  ninety  and  a 
hundred  dollars,  were  found  on  his  person ;  conclusively 
proving  that  robbery  was  not  the  cause  or  the  motive  that 
led  to  the  murder.  Susie  O'Neil,  the  servant,  told  a  con- 
fused story  about  a  tramp  who  had  tried  to  force  an  en- 
trance into  the  house  about  a  week  ago.  The  policeman 
who  patrols  the  street  where  the  murder  was  committed 
corroborated  the  girl's  story,  and  stated  that  he  had  been 
sent  for  to  expel  the  tramp,  but  that  when  he  reached  the 
house  Mr.  Van  Hess  informed  him  that  it  was  all  right — 
that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  Last  night  the  same  officer 
met  the  same  man  coming  out  of  the  house  about  the  hour 
that  the  murder  was  supposed  to  be  committed.  That  the 
officer  recognized  him  is  certain,  for  he  accosted  the  tramp 
— "  You  here  again  ?  I  must  warn  Mr.  Van  Hess."  From 
all  the  facts,  it  seems  that  this  tramp  was  the  murderer; 
but  what  his  motive  could  have  been  is  a  mystery.  It  is 
hinted  that  Mr.  V,an  Hess  has  had  domestic  troubles  and 
business  difficulties ;  but  the  person  who  was  the  cause  of 
these  is  supposed  to  be  wandering  in  South  America. 
Such  were  a  few  of  the  extracts  culled  from  the  leading 
morning  journals.  An  evening  paper  announced  that  the 
investigation  was  in  the  hands  of  the  detectives;  that  a 
highly  important  and  curious  slip  of  paper  has  been  found 
beneath  a  book-case  in  the  library,  as  if  wafted  there  dur- 
ing the  struggle  that  preceded  the  murder,  and  that  this 
paper  consists  of  irregular  fragments  of  common  letter-pa- 
per pasted  on  red  blotting-paper.  But  the  most  singular 
thing  of  all  is  the  writing  itself,  which  contains  the  words, 
"  William  Wilde" — "fifteen  hundred  dollars"— "Dec.  20, 
18 — ,"  and  "Jacob  Van  Hess"  Perhaps  the  name  and 
date  will  enable  Mr.  Wilde  to  throw  some  light  on  this 
mysterious  murder.  Later  accounts  stated  that  there  was 
no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  the  detectives  that  the  tramp 
committed  the  deed,  and  that  he  would  be  arrested  within 


244  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

twenty-four  hours.  The  detectives  had  interviews  to-day 
with.  Messrs.  William  Wilde  and  George  Bailey,  bankers, 
and  with  a  man  named  Grady,  who  resides  in  Williams- 
burgh.  They  also  called  upon  an  up-town  liquor- dealer, 
named  Timothy  Quin,  once  a  porter  in  the  employ  of  Van 
Hess  &  Co.  The  police,  as  usual,  are  quite  reticent,  and 
look  very  knowing ;  but  they  assure  us  that  they  are  on 
the  right  scent.  If  rumor  be  correct,  certain  family  secrets 
will  be  made  public  in  this  trial  which  will  once  again  en- 
force the  truth  of  the  old  adage,  that  "  Truth  is  stranger 
than  fiction." 

Myron  Finch,  in  murdering  Mr.  Van  Hess,  had  also 
"  murdered  sleep."  The  miserable  coward  died  ten  thou- 
sand deaths  during  the  night,  which  to  him  seemed  inter- 
minable. Long  before  daylight  he  arose  and  dressed  him- 
self, but  feared  to  leave  his  room  during  the  darkness.  He 
waited  and  listened;  and  the  first  intelligible  words  which 
fell  distinctly  on  his  ear  were  the  words  of  the  newsboy, 
"  Mornin'  "* Erald,  Murder  of  Mr.  Van  Hess  in  his  own 
house,"  etc.,  etc.  These  words  sent  a  fresh  chill  through 
his  heart  like  cold  lead,  and  caused  his  knees  to  smite  each 
other.  The  newsboy  was  gone,  and  Finch  was  hungry  for 
the  details.  He  mustered  up  all  his  resolution  and  slipped 
cautiously  into  the  street ;  he  went  to  the  nearest  news- 
stand and  bought  the  Herald.  In  the  gray  dawn  of  a  win- 
ter's morning  the  following  headings,  in  enormous  capitals, 
told  the  story : 

ATROCIOUS  MURDER  OF  JACOB  VAN  HESS! 
MURDERED  BY  A  TRAMP! 

THE  POLICE  ON  HIS  TRAIL.     THE  MURDERER  CANNOT 
ESCAPE. 

A  SLIP  OF  PAPER  WHICH  WILL  UNRAVEL  THE  MYSTERY. 

There  was  half  a  column  of  these  terrible  black  headings, 
and  they  looked  as  if  they  were  Myron  Finch's  death-war- 
rant. As  he  read  the  paper,  or  rather  as  his  eyes  and  brain 
devoured  the  reporter's  graphic  description,  and  particular- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  245 

ly  the  part  relating  to  the  fragments  of  letter-paper  pasted 
on  the  blotting-paper,  he  almost  fainted,  and  would  have 
fallen  into  the  gutter  had  he  not  clasped  a  lamp-post.  His 
worst  fears  were  now  realized.  His  alibi,  so  skilfully  plan- 
ned and  executed,  would  avail  him  nothing ;  for  the  most 
damning  evidence  of  all  was  found — evidence  which  would 
bring  as  witnesses  against  him  Wilde,  Bailey,  Grady,  and 
Quin,  and  prove  an  excellent  motive  for  the  murder.  He 
slunk  back  to  his  little  dingy  bedroom,  undressed,  and  went 
to  bed,  a  prey  to  terrors  which  really  sickened  him ;  so  that 
when  the  little  doctor  called  to  see  his  patient,  there  was 
no  sham,  as  there  had  been  the  evening  before. 

After  Washington  Scroggs,  M.D.,  had  put  down  his  hat 
and  gloves  and  placed  his  cane  where  it  could  receive  no 
injury,  just  as  he  had  done  last  evening,  and  just  as  he  had 
done  every  evening  since  he  commenced  the  practice  of 
medicine ;  and  after  he  had  placed  his  right  leg  lovingly, 
with  both  his  hands,  above  his  left ;  and  after  he  had  felt 
Finch's  pulse  and  examined  Finch's  tongue;  and  after  he 
had  looked  very  wise  and  very  profound,  smiling  blandly 
and  wagging  his  head  knowingly,  as  if  that  head  contained 
all  the  combined  medical  lore  of  the  world  from  the  time 
of  Galen  to  the  present  day,  he  simply  muttered,  "  Conges- 
tion tending  toward  the  abdominals  (from  abdo,  I  hide)." 
After  a  few  more  sagacious  waggings  of  his  learned  head, 
he  said,  "  Nothing  will  effect  a  cure  but  my  panacea  (from 
the  Greek,  meaning  cure  all)." 

Finch  was  tired  of  the  little  quack  and  of  his  pedantic 
jargon,  and  desired  to  see  how  far  his  evidence  might  be 
used  to  prove  an  alibi  in  case  he  was  arrested  and  tried  for 
his  life.  Very  soon  Scroggs  took  out  the  morning  paper 
and  commenced  to  read  the  account  of  the  murder,  giving 
sundry  learned  comments  upon  death  by  asphyxia  (not  for- 
getting the  root  of  the  word),  and  seeming  to  lose  all  idea 
of  its  atrocity  in  a  scientific  explanation  how  his  "receiver" 
would  have  restored  the  murdered  man  to  life  twenty  min- 
utes after  the  ordinary  physicians  had  pronounced  him  dead. 

"What  time  do  you  say  that  the  murder  was  perpe- 
trated ?"  asked  Finch. 


246  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Between  the  hours  of  half-past  eight  and  half-past  ten," 
replied  Scroggs. 

"Ah!"  said  Finch,  carelessly,  "that  was  just  the  time 
•when  I  was  suffering  most  with  this  bilious  colic." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Scroggs ;  "  I  remember,  I  was  here  about 
ten,  and  you  said  you  had  been  in  bed  since  six." 

"  Did  you  know  this  Jacob  Van  Hess  ?"  asked  Finch. 

"  No,  I  had  not  the  honor  of  his  acquaintance,  though  I 
once  knew  his  son-in-law,  one  Myron  Finch,  the  worst  rascal 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean." 

"  Ah  !"  groaned  Finch. 

"  Another  attack?  Here  is  a  powder  which  will  give  you 
relief  until  you  are  well  enough  to  come  to  my  office  to  be 
completely  cured  by  my  'receiver.'  Good- morning,  Mr. 
Brown ;  I  shall  call  again  to-morrow." 

When  Scroggs  had  retired,  Finch  took  out  the  Herald 
and  read  over  and  over  again  the  details  of  the  murder. 
He  closed  his  eyes  to  think  the  better;  but  he  clearly 
perceived  that  if  he  were  arrested,  he  would  assuredly  be 
convicted  and  hanged.  Already,  in  imagination,  Finch  felt 
the  pressure  of  the  rope  around  his  neck.  The  thought  of 
swallowing  the  strychnine  flashed  across  his  mind ;  but 
he  was  too  great  a  coward,  and  too  fond  of  his  miserable 
life  to  end  it  in  this  way.  Then  he  thought  it  would  be 
safest  to  remain  sick  in  bed  for  a  week  or  two  in  a  dark- 
ened room ;  and,  just  as  soon  as  the  excitement  about  the 
murder  died  out,  steal  off  to  Boston,  from  Boston  to  Port- 
land, thence  to  Halifax,  and  so  on  to  Liverpool. 

Jenny  Edwards  read  the  account  of  the  murder  of  Jacob 
Van  Hess,  and  never  doubted  for  one  moment  who  had 
done  the  deed,  and  why.  She  had  previously  learned  from 
John  Grady  that  Mr.  Van  Hess  had  called  for  the  practice- 
forgery  papers,  and  she  readily  surmised  the  rest.  As  she 
sat  in  her  room,  after  reading  all  the  details  of  the  horrid 
crime,  the  tears  falling  silently  on  the  newspaper  which  lay 
in  her  lap,  she  said  to  herself,  "  So  this  is  the  end  of  Myron 
Finch !"  She  took  up  the  newspaper  and  reread  the  hor- 
rid details.  She  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knees, 
weeping  bitterly,  and  hoping  that  now  he  would  repent 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  247 

and  turn  to  his  Saviour.  To  die  in  his  sins,  and  to  suffer 
through  all  the  ages  of  eternity,  seemed  to  her  mind  some- 
thing too  terrible  to  contemplate.  She  thought  that  if  he 
would  now  seek  pardon  from  an  offended  God,  they  might 
yet  meet,  and  be  forever  happy  in  heaven.  Jenny  went  to 
her  own  room  and  kneeled  by  her  bedside,  and  prayed  long 
and  fervently  for  the  conversion  of  Myron  Finch.  She 
arose,  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak,  and  went  out  to  seek  her 
uncle  John  Grady,  in  order  to  obtain  information  concern- 
ing the  practice-forgery  papers.  As  she  ascended  the  hill 
leading  toward  Grady's  house,  she  perceived  Mr.  Bailey  and 
Mr.  Grady  walking,  arm-in-arm,  in  earnest  conversation.  She 
overtook  them,  and  after  the  ordinary  salutations  had  been 
exchanged,  Mr.  Bailey  asked  her  if  she  had  read  the  account 
in  the  papers  of  the  atrocious  murder  of  Mr.  Jacob  Van 
Hess. 

"  I  have  read  the  account,"  Jenny  replied,  "  and  it  is 
dreadful,  dreadful !" 

"  I  have  been  summoned  to  attend  the  coroner's  inquest, 
and  give  evidence  concerning  the  slip  of  paper  found  un- 
der the  bookcase  in  the  library.  Mr.  William  Wilde,  Tim- 
othy Quin,  and  your  uncle  have  also  been  summoned  to  at- 
tend. We  shall  of  course  be  compelled  to  state  all  we 
know."  In  making  this  statement  Bailey  gave  Jenny  Ed- 
wards a  significant  look,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  You  cannot 
consider  this  a  violation  of  tny  promise  not  to  prosecute 
Myron  Finch  ?" 

Jenny  Edwards  understood  Bailey's  look,  and  replied, 
"  Of  course  you  must  state  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth." 

Finally  Jenny  accomplished  her  purpose,  and  found  her 
uncle  alone. 

"  Uncle,  uncle,  you  have  been  more  than  a  father  to  me," 
pleaded  Jenny  ;  "  for  God's  sake,  help  me  to  save  him  !  He 
must  not  die  a  felon's  death,  with  all  his  sins  on  his  head. 
We  must  not  permit  soul  and  body  to  perish  together." 

"Jenny,  Jenny,  my  dear,"  replied  Grady,  "  you  are  mad — 
mad  as  a  March  hare !  Nothing  can  now  save  him — noth- 
ing ought  to  save  him!  He  would  murder  you,  or  me,  or 


248  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

any  one,  for  a  few  dollars,  or  to  gratify  his  meanest  pas- 
sion. Hold  your  tongue,  Jenny !  Keep  quiet !  Never  go 
near  him  ;  never  pretend  that  you  have  known  him.  Bailey 
knows  nothing  of  your  former  relations  with  him,  neither 
does  Quin,  neither  does  Mr.  Wilde ;  so  you  must  keep  still 
and  say  nothing,  for  your  own  sake.  If  he  escapes,  let 
him ;  but  you  must  do  nothing  to  aid  him.  You  know, 
Jenny,  that  I  have  always  stood  by  you ;  but  if  Myron 
Finch  has  done  this  deed,  and  if  you  do  anything  to  save 
him,  even  to  the  lifting  of  your  little  finger,  I  shall  cast  you 
off  forever  and  disown  you  !" 

Jenny  Edwards  wrung  her  hands  in  a  kind  of  speechless 
misery  pitiable  to  behold.  At  last  she  spoke  in  a  low,  bro- 
ken, and  agonized  tone :  "  John  Grady,  would  you  let  a  fel- 
low-creature die  in  his  sins  and  suffer  eternal  punishment  ? 
The  man  is  wicked,  I  know,  but  the  teaching  of  Christ  in- 
culcates forgiveness  and  charity." 

"  What  time  did  the  murderer  give  Mr.  Van  Hess  for 
repentance  ?"  asked  Grady.  "  But  hush !  Here  is  Bailey 
coming  down-stairs.  Remember,  Jenny,  what  I  have  told 
you ;  if  you  lift  your  finger  to  help  this  man,  I'll  disown 
you.  If  caught  and  convicted,  he  will  have  far  more  time 
to  repent  than  he  allowed  his  victim." 

After  the  departure  of  Bailey  and  Grady  to  attend  the 
coroner's  inquest,  poor  Jenny  sat  like  one  distracted.  If 
she  could  only  discover  his  lodgings,  she  might  be  able,  she 
thought,  to  assist  him,  at  least  with  money.  It  was  truly  a 
sad  sight  to  see  this  pious  woman,  with  her  sensitive  con- 
science and  her  sound  intellect,  with  her  excellent  common- 
sense  in  all  the  affairs  of  life,  and  with  her  temper  true  but 
hard  as  steel,  willing  to  aid  with  her  last  dollar  the  man 
who  had  so  cruelly  wronged  her,  and  who  had  so  recently 
perpetrated  the  highest  crime  known  to  the  law.  It  seem- 
ed as  if  the  very  dregs  of  the  passion  she  had  once  felt  for 
him  had  the  power  to  turn  her  moral  nature  awry.  She 
sat  and  pondered  for  a  few  minutes,  then  arose  and  spoke  a 
few  words  to  her  aunt,  and  hastily  left  the  house.  She  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  seek  Timothy  Quin,  if  possible,  before 
the  inquest,  and  ascertain  from  him  how  far  the  practice- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  249 

forgery  papers  would  compromise  Finch  in  a  trial  for  his  life. 
Jenny  had  another  purpose,  which  will  presently  appear. 

She  found  Timothy  Quin's  address  in  the  directory,  and 
hurried  up  to  his  residence.  Fortunately  the  worthy  "  wine- 
merchant  "  was  at  home. 

"  Mr.  Quin,  do  you  remember  me  ?"  asked  Jenny,  in  her 
short,  direct,  New  England  way. 

"  Throth,  ma'am,  I  remimber  yer  face,  but,  for  the  life  o' 
me,  I  can't  place  ye." 

"  Mr.  Quin,  do  you  recollect  the  night  that  John  Grady 
and  a  lady  saved  your  life  when  you  were  almost  dead  with 
liquor  and  opium  ?" 

"It's  meself  that  does,  ma'am.  Shure  you  and  he  tuck 
good  care  o'  me,  and  sint  me  home  in  a  carridge." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Quin,  I  am  the  lady  who  saved  your  life 
that  morning.  Are  you  now  willing  to  do  me  a  favor?" 

"  Throth  an'  I  am,  ma'am,  if  ye  don't  ax  too  much." 

Jenny  paused,  as  if  anxious  to  put  her  thoughts  in  the 
best  shape,  and  then  said, 

"  I  want  you  to  retire  to  the  country  for  a  few  weeks. 
I  shall  pay  you  double  the  amount  that  your  business  may 
suffer  in  your  absence.  If  you  would  care  to  visit  your 
friends  in  Ireland,  I  shall  pay  your  passage  there  and  back." 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Timothy  Quin  was  a  "  wine- 
merchant,"  and  a  chief  among  small  politicians,  truth  com- 
pels us  to  state  that  he  had  no  pleasure  in  reading,  for  the 
reason  that,  being  obliged  to  spell  out  more  than  half  the 
words,  he  usually  lost  the  thread  of  the  subject ;  and  that,  as 
for  writing,  he  had  simply  learned  to  draw — as  a  child  might 
draw  Chinese  characters  from  tea-boxes — certain  marks  which 
stood  for  Timothy  Quin. 

He  had  not  yet  heard  of  the  murder,  because  there  had 
been  no  meeting  yet  in  the  little  gambling-room  off  the  bar, 
in  which  Timothy,  with  spectacles  on  nose,  and  newspaper 
in  hand,  pretending  to  read,  carefully  gleaned  the  informa- 
tion that  he  desired,  and  all  the  news  of  the  day,  from  the 
conversation  of  men  superior  to  himself.  For,  unfortunate- 
ly, in  places  like  Quin's  there  is  not  unfrcquently  to  be  found 
an  able  but  besotted  lawyer  or  a  ruined  physician. 


250  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

Hence  it  was  not  at  all  astonishing  that  Quin  was  still  ig- 
norant of  the  atrocious  crime  perpetrated  the  night  before. 
The  summons  to  attend  the  coroner's  inquest  had  not  yet 
reached  him.  And  so  he  was  puzzled  to  know  what  Miss 
Edwards  was  driving  at,  and  why  she  was  anxious  to  get 
him  out  of  the  country.  But  Timothy  was  too  shrewd  a 
man  to  express  his  feelings,  or,  as  he  himself  said,  "  to  give 
himself  away."  So  he  wisely  awaited  further  developments. 

"  Miss  Edwards,"  said  Quin,  "  me  health  is  excellent, 
thank  God,  an'  I  niver  was  betther  in  me  Me ;  thin  why 
should  I  go  to  the  counthry  or  to  the  ould  sod  ?" 

"  How  much  money,"  asked  Jenny,  "  will  you  take  for 
keeping  out  of  the  way,  and  giving  no  evidence  concerning 
the  practice-forgery  papers?" 

"  Why  should  I  give  evidence  ?"  asked  Quin — "  evidence 
in  what  ?" 

Miss  Edwards  handed  him  the  newspaper ;  but  Quin 
handed  it  back  to  her,  as  he  said, 

"  By  yer  lave,  ma'am,  I  broke  me  '  specs '  this  mornin,'  an' 
me  sight  is  very  wake  ;  wud  ye  be  plased  to  read  it  aloud  ?" 

While  she  was  reading,  the  changes  in  the  expression  of 
Qnin's  face  were  a  study.  They  reminded  one  of  the  changes 
on  the  surface  of  a  smooth  lake  caused  by  the  fitful  sun- 
shine of  a  partly-clouded  April  day.  When  Miss  Edwards 
had  finished  reading  the  account  of  the  murder,  Timothy 
Quin's  commentary  was  unique  and  peculiar :  it  was  sim- 
ply a  long,  low  whistle,  and  "  So,  Misther  Myron  Finch, 
yeVe  done  it  at  last !" 

"  Now  listen  to  me,  ma'am :  upon  me  wor-rd  an'  honor 
I'd  do  anything  in  rason  for  ye.  But  this  is  sarious :  it's 
murdther,  an'  forgery  beyant  it.  It  must  all  come  out  now, 
ma'am  :  ye  can't  smother  murdther  as  ye  can  forgery  an' 
thim  things ;  an'  to  go  'way  an'  hide  wud  be  a  mighty  bad 
business  for  Timothy  Quin.  No,  no ;  I'll  tell  the  whole 
blessed  thruth  whin  I'm  called  to  the  stan'." 

"  Mr.  Quin,"  said  Jenny,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty,  "  Mr. 
Finch's  life  depends  on  your  evidence.  I  will  give  you 
one  thousand  dollars  if  you  will  leave  the  country  or  dis- 
appear for  three  months." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  251 

"  No,  no,  ma'am  ;  there  isn't  money  enough  in  New  Yark 
to  bribe  me  aginst  me  dhuty." 

Jenny  Edwards,  perceiving  that  there  was  no  hope  in  this 
quarter,  rode  home  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  dreading  every 
moment  to  hear  the  newsboys  cry  out,  "  Arrest  of  Myron 
Finch,  the  murderer !" 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  Poise  the  cause  in  justice'  equal  scales, 
Whose  beam  stands  sure,  whose  rightful  cause  prevails." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

IN  the  back -parlor  of  the  residence  of  the  late  Jacob 
Van  Hess  was  assembled  the  usual  crowd  to  be  found  at 
a  coroner's  inquest.  The  coroner,  a  fat,  puffy,  pompous 
man,  with  an  apoplectic  face  and  neck,  and  dressed  in  a 
badly-fitting  suit  of  shiny  black,  and  linen  that  ought  to 
have  been  at  the  washerwoman's,  presided  with  an  air  of 
official  and  officious  importance,  and  with  an  attempt  at 
dignity  which  was  ludicrous  in  spite  of  the  gravity  of  the 
occasion.  He  pushed  up  his  coat-sleeves  with  something 
of  the  action  of  a  prize-fighter;  and  he  settled  and  reset- 
tled his  fat  chin  and  jaws  within  his  huge  shirt-collar  with 
the  air  of  an  owl  adjusting  the  ruffled  feathers  of  its  fat 
neck.  The  jury,  composed  of  men  of  all  nationalities  and 
of  every  station  in  life,  sat  on  either  side  of  this  digni- 
tary of  the  law.  Near  the  coroner  sat  an  assistant  dis- 
trict attorney — a  young  man  of  intelligence  and  education. 
Lawyers,  physicians,  mechanics,  men,  women,  and  even 
children  had  forced  their  way  into  the  two  parlors.  Police- 
men located  or  stationed  here  and  there  from  the  door  of 
the  library,  where  the  corpse  lay,  to  the  stoop  and  the  side- 
walk, were  vainly  endeavoring  to  keep  back  the  crowd. 
The  street  was  half  filled  with  that  miscellaneous  gather- 
ing always  ready  to  congregate  upon  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion— to  whom  a  military  band,  a  target  excursion,  or  an 
atrocious  murder,  is  equally  an  object  of  curiosity  and 
pleasure. 


252  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

The  first  witness  called  was  Mrs.  Grace  Finch,  who  ap- 
peared dressed  in  deep  mourning  and  heavily  veiled.  When 
she  raised  her  veil  in  order  to  answer  the  questions  put  to 
her  by  the  coroner,  her  face  bore  traces  of  the  shock  and 
grief  which  the  sudden  and  terrible  death  of  her  father  had 
caused.  After  stating  what  is  already  known  concerning 
the  finding  of  the  dead  body  at  the  hour  of  eleven  in  the 
evening,  and  concerning  her  father's  interview  with  a  stran- 
ger, and  his  expressed  wish  not  to  be  disturbed,  the  coroner 
asked  her  if  she  had  any  idea  who  this  stranger  was ;  and 
she  replied  that  she  had  not. 

"  Had  your  father  any  enemy  ?"  asked  the  assistant  dis- 
trict attorney. 

"  None  that  I  knew  of." 

"  Pardon  rne,  Mrs.  Finch,  I  would  not  ask  you  this  ques- 
tion did  not  the  ends  of  justice  demand  it.  Did  you  not 
a  few  months  ago  receive  a  divorce  from  Myron  Finch?" 

"  I  did,"  replied  Mrs.  Finch,  in  a  very  low  tone. 

"  On  what  grounds,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  Cruelty,  desertion,  and — and — adultery." 

"  Was  your  late  husband  a  partner  of  your  father?" 

"  He  was." 

"Did  not  your  father  and  he  part  in  anger?" 

"No,  not  in  anger.  Mr.  Finch  absconded  —  and  —  and 
robbed  my  father." 

"Where  did  your  late  husband  abscond  to?"  asked  the 
coroner. 

"  I  think  we  heard  that  he  went  to  South  America." 

"  Have  you  heard  of  his  return  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  I  have  not." 

"  That  will  do,  Mrs.  Finch.  But  wait  a  moment ;  one 
question  more.  Did  your  father  seem  depressed  in  spirits 
before  his  death  ?" 

"  I  know  he  did ;  and,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  am  sure 
he  had  been  trying  to  hide  something  from  me  for  one 
week  previous  to  his  death."  At  this  point  Mrs.  Finch 
utterly  broke  down,  and  was  led  out  of  the  room  sobbing 
by  one  of  her  female  friends. 

The  next  witness  was  the  girl  Susie  O'Neil,  who  de- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  253 

scribed,  as  far  as  she  was  able,  the  tramp  with  the  tat- 
tered clothes  and  broken  nose,  and  told  the  story  about 
seeking  a  policeman,  and  of  Mr.  Van  Hess's  refusal  to  ac- 
cept his  services  when  found.  The  evidence  of  the  officer 
corroborated  that  of  the  servant,  and  showed  further  how 
he  had  met  the  same  tramp  leaving  the  house  of  Mr.  Van 
Hess  the  evening  of  the  murder.  He  was  sure  it  was  the 
same  man,  because  he  had  used  the  words, "  You  here  again  ? 
I  must  warn  Mr.  Van  Hess." 

"  Would  you  know  the  man  if  you  saw  him  again  ?" 
asked  the  coroner. 

"  I  would  recognize  him  among  ten  thousand,"  replied 
the  officer. 

"  Is  John  Grady  present  ?  Mr.  Grady,  do  you  recognize 
that  piece  of  paper  ?" 

"  I  do." 

"  When  did  you  last  see  that  paper  ?"  asked  the  coroner. 

"  When  I  gave  it,  or  one  exactly  like  it,  into  the  hands 
of  Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess,  in  my  house  in  Williamsburgh." 

"  Mr.  Grady,"  said  the  young  attorney,  "  this  is  a  pecul- 
iar piece  of  paper,  as  you  see — torn  irregularly  into  four 
fragments,  which  have  been  matched  and  pasted  on  this 
thick  blotting-paper.  The  ink  has  turned  yellow  with  age, 
and  the  paper  is  soiled  with  much  handling.  Can  you  give 
the  jury  the  history  of  the  papers  which  you  handed  to  Mr. 
Van  Hess  one  week  ago,  of  which  this  is  evidently  one,  and 
tell  us  the  meaning  of  these  words — of  this  writing?" 

"  Well,  sir,  this  is  a  long  story,  and  I  must  be  allowed  to 
tell  it  in  my  own  way." 

Grady  then  narrated  the  story  of  the  forgery ;  the  trial 
of  Bailey;  his  conviction  and  long  imprisonment;  the  un- 
mitigated villany  of  Finch  ;  his  capture  of  the  practice-forg- 
ery papers  in  the  hotel ;  and  all  the  other  facts  of  this 
story  with  which  he  was  connected,  or  of  which  he  had  a 
personal  knowledge.  John  Grady  waxed  eloquent  as  he 
portrayed  the  virtues  of  Bailey  or  denounced  the  fraud  and 
treachery  of  Finch  and  Quin.  His  manner  was  inimitable, 
and  his  speech  had  just  enough  of  the  brogue  to  impart  a 
raciness  to  his  flow  of  language.  The  reporters  for  the 


254  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

great  dailies,  always  favored  by  the  politicians  with  the  best 
positions  for  hearing  on  such  occasions,  took  down  every 
syllable  that  dropped  from  the  lips  of  the  speaker. 

"  Mr.  Grady,"  said  the  assistant  district  attorney,  "  this  is 
a  strange  story — stranger  than  fiction.  I  would  like  to  ask 
you  how  you  came  to  be  in  such  a  position  in  the  hotel  as 
to  overhear  and  see  what  occurred  in  the  room  in  which 
Finch  and  Quin  were  dining?" 

"  I  was  in  the  next  room,  with  the  door  slightly  ajar. 
Finch's  back  was  toward  me,  and  my  worthy  friend  the 
'  wine-merchant '  was  so  intoxicated  that  he  was  blind — 
blind  drunk." 

"  Who  was  with  you,  and  how  came  you  there?" 

"  I  decline  to  answer  that  question  unless  it  becomes  nec- 
essary to  further  the  ends  of  justice,"  replied  Grady. 

"  You  need  not  answer,  Mr.  Grady.  Is  Timothy  Quin  in 
the  room  ?"  asked  the  coroner. 

"  I  am,  yer  honor." 

As  the  burly  form  of  Quin  shouldered  its  way  right  and 
left  to  the  front,  every  eye  was  turned  to  get  a  closer  view 
of  the  man  whose  character  and  antecedents  had  been  laid 
bare  by  the  story  just  told.  The  first  unfavorable  sign  of 
the  man  was  his  dress,  which  was  loud ;  the  next  was  his 
jewellery,  which  was  weighty,  particularly  his  watch-chain  ; 
and  last,  was  his  face — his  hang-dog  face — with  beetling 
brow  and  sunken,  unsteady  eye. 

"  Quin,"  said  the  young  attorney,  "  look  at  that  curious 
piece  of  paper  and  tell  us  if  you  ever  saw  it  before." 

Quin  took  it  in  his  hand,  turned  it  over,  and  examined 
even  the  back  of  it,  and  scrutinized  it  most  carefully,  evi- 
dently thinking  of  his  answer.  At  length  he  said,  in  slow 
and  measured  words, 

"  Have — I — seen — it — before  ?  I — think — I — have,  or  at 
laste  a  piece  of  paper  very  loike  it;"  and  Timothy  continued 
to  inspect  it  as  though  it  were  the  face  of  a  long-lost  friend. 

"  Did  you  ever  have  a  paper  like  that,  and  others  of  a 
similar  kind,  in  your  possession?" 

"  I — think — I — had,"  replied  Quin,  in  a  slow,  hesitating 
way. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  255 

"  You  think  !"  said  the  assistant  district  attorney — "  you 
think !  Don't  you  know  ?  You  heard  the  evidence  of  Mr. 
John  Grady.  Did  you  pick  the  torn  fragments  out  of  the 
waste  -  basket,  and  paste  them  on  pieces  of  red  blotting- 
paper  ?" 

"  I— think— I— did." 

"  Think !  think !"  impatiently  ejaculated  the  attorney. 
You  know  whether  you  did  or  not.  Come,  sir,  did  you,  or 
did  you  not?" 

"  I— did." 

"  Why  did  you  do  so  ?"  asked  the  coroner. 

"Bekase  —  bekase,  I  wondthered  what  Misther  Finch 
meant  by  so  much  writin'  afther  business-hours.  He  wud 
remain  afther  the  other  clerks  were  gone,  an'  he  wud  sit  at 
his  desk  in  a  kind  ov  absent-moinded  way,  writin'  an'  writin'. 
Thin  he  wud  tear  up  the  paper  an'  throw  it  into  the  basket. 
Knowin'  that  Finch  was  a  cute  kind  ov  a  chap,  an'  playin' 
the  pious  dodge  on  ould  Van  Hess,  it  sthruck  me  wan  night 
that  I  would  collect  these  torn  papers,  match  thim,  an' 
paste  thim  on  the  blottin' -  paper,  bekase  it  was  stiff  an' 
handy." 

"  Why  did  you  do  this  ?"  asked  the  coroner. 

"  Well — well — ye  see,  I  knew  Finch  was  a  deep  sort  ov 
chap,  and  intinded  to  play  some  kind  ov  game,  an'  I  med 
up  me  mind  to  have  an  oye  on  him." 

"  Did  you  suspect  what  he  was  about  ?" 

"  I  didn't  know  exactly  what  he  was  up  to,  but  I  guessed 
it  was  nothin'  good." 

"  Quin,"  said  the  attorney,  "  what  led  you  to  suspect 
Finch  ?" 

"  Well,  yer  honor,  he  wud  never  read  wan  ov  his  pious 
books  or  papers  until  he  saw  Mr.  Van  Hess  near  him  ;  thin 
he  wud  pull  it  out  an'  lay  it  an  his  desk,  where  the  ould 
gintleman  wud  be  sure  to  see  it.  In  the  evenin's,  whin  he 
an'  me  was  alone,  he  wud  never  read  a  word  ov  his  pious 
stuff." 

"Pretty  keen  observation,  Mr.  Quin;"  said  the  public 
prosecutor.  "  You  saw  that  Finch  was  an  arrant  hypocrite, 
and  you  knew  that  a  pious  hypocrite  would  commit  any 


256  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

crime  in  the  calendar,  if  he  thought  he  could  escape  the 
meshes  of  the  law." 

"  Exactly,  yer  honor." 

"  Why  did  you  not  inform  Mr.  Van  Hess  ?" 

"An'  lose  me  place !     Do  you  think  I  was  a  fool ?" 

"  Tell  us,"  said  the  assistant  district  attorney,  "  in  your 
own  way,  what  followed." 

"  Wan  day  in  Noviinber,  about  dusk,  Finch  med  me  put 
on  Bailey's  light  summer  business-coat  an'  go  to  the  bank- 
in'-house  of  Warrenton,  Wilde  &  Co.,  an'  hand  Mr.  Wilde 
a  check  an'  wait  for  a  receipt.  Ye  sec,  I  was  the  portlier, 
the  messinger,  an'  man-of-all-work  about  the  store,  an'  whin 
Misther  Finch  sint  me  it  was  me  dhuty  to  obey  ordhers  an' 
ax  no  questions." 

"  When  you  put  on  Bailey's  coat,"  asked  the  attorney, 
"did  you  not  suspect  something  wrong?  Did  you  not  sus- 
pect that  you  were  personating  Mr.  Bailey  when  you  were 
sent  a  little  before  dark  ?" 

"  Wrong  ?  Why  should  I  suspect  somethin'  wrong  ?  I 
wint  to  banks  almost  every  day." 

"  Ask  no  questions,  Quin,  but  answer  mine.  On  your 
oath,  did  you  not  suspect  something  wrong  ?" 

"Wrong?     Why  should  I?" 

"  Come,  come,  sir — yes  or  no  :  did  you  not  suspect  some- 
thing wrong?" 

"  Well,  if  I  did,  it  was  none  ov  me  business.  It  was  me 
dhuty  to  go  errands,  an'  I  wint  errands." 

"  Will  you  answer  my  question  ?"  said  the  public  prose- 
cutor, with  considerable  asperity. 

Timothy  scratched  his  head  and  reflected ;  and  at  length 
he  boldly  lied,  and  said, 

"  No — at  laste  not  at  that  time." 

The  young  assistant  district  attorney  gave  Quin  a  most 
formidable  look,  as  he  asked, 

"How  much  money  did  Mr.  Finch  pay  you  for  that  er- 
rand? Como  now,  you  are  on  your  oath,  and  beware!" 

"  I— I— don't  know." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'you  don't  know?'  Did  Finch, 
or  did  he  not,  pay  you  for  that  errand  to  Mr.  Wilde  ?" 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  257 

"Am  I  oblcegcd  to  answer  that  question,  ycr  honor?1' 
said  Quin,  turning  to  the  coroner,  who  was  his  political 
friend. 

"  I  believe  you  are." 

"  Did  Mr.  Finch  ever  give  you  any  money  ?"  demanded 
the  attorney — "  Yes  or  no." 

"  Yes ;  he  ped  me  wages." 

"That  will  not  do,  Mr.  Timothy  Quin.  I  repeat,  you  are 
under  oath,  and  had  better  be  careful.  You  know  the  con- 
sequences of  perjury.  I  demand  an  answer  to  my  ques- 
tion :  '  Did  Myron  Finch  ever  give  you  money  for  carrying 
that  check  to  Mr.  William  Wilde  f  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Quin,  in  a  sulky  tone. 

"Did  Mr.  Finch  ever  give  you  money  other  than  your 
wages  ?" 

"  Yis." 

"How  much?" 

"  Wan  thousand  dollars." 

"  For  Avhat  work  did  Finch  give  you  so  large  a  sum  of 
money?" 

"To  hold  me  tongue — to  keep  mum." 

"  To  hold  your  tongue  about  what  ?" 

"  About  the  check  and  the  practisin'." 

"  So  you  heard  Mr.  Bailey  accused ;  you  saw  him  tried 
and  convicted;  you  knew  that  he  was  sent  to  State-prison 
for  ten  years  on  a  false  charge  of  forgery ;  and  for  a  paltry 
bribe  of  a  thousand  dollars  you  stood  by  and  saw  all  this 
and  held  your  tongue  ?  Bah !  you  were  every  whit  as  bad 
as  Finch ;  and  you  were,  if  possible,  meaner ;  for  he  played 
for  a  higher  stake — a  partnership  and  the  old  gentleman's 
daughter." 

Quin  asked  his  friend  the  coroner  to  protect  him  from 
the  assaults  of  the  irate  attorney ;  but  that  gentleman  con- 
tinued :  "  Protect  you  !  If  the  law  would  permit  it,  I  would 
send  you  to  prison  for  life ;  nay,  I  would  hang  you  !" 

"You'd  betther  be  quiet,  Misther  Attorney  ?  I  kin  meet 
ye  at  the  polls  whin  yer  masther  comes  up  for  re-election  ?" 
whispered  Qnin,  giving  the  gentlemanly  law-officer  a  most 
villanous  look. 

17 


258  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  A  fig  for  your  influence !  Do  your  worst !  It  is  you 
and  the  like  of  you  who  bring  disgrace  on  republican  insti- 
tutions, and  keep  gentlemen  from  the  polls." 

At  this  point  the  coroner  called  the  assistant  district  at- 
torney to  order,  and  asked  if  he  had  done  with  the  witness. 

"  No,  I  have  not.  Quin,  did  you  use  these  practice-forg- 
ery papers,  as  described  by  Mr.  Grady,  to  levy  black-mail 
from  Mr.  Finch  about  three  years  ago  ?" 

"I  asked  Mr.  Finch  for  money,"  doggedly  replied  Quin. 

"  For  how  much  did  you  ask  ?" 

"How  much?  How  much? — Let  me  see.  At  first  for 
fifty  thousand,  but  kem  down  to  twinty-five." 

"How  did  you  expect  to  compel  Finch  to  pay  you  so 
large  a  sum  ?" 

"Bekase — bekase  I  had  his  writin',  an'  he  was  afeared 
ov  it." 

"  Did  you  get  drunk  and  insensible,  and  did  Mr.  Grady 
send  you  home  the  next  morning  more  dead  than  alive  ?" 

"Yis." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  any  of  those  papers  since  that  night, 
until  you  saw  this  one  that  I  hold  in  my  hand  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Have  you  seen  Finch  since  that  night  ?" 

"  Yis." 

"  Where  ? 

"  In  me  own  store  up  town." 

"  When  ?" 

"  Within  ten  days.     I  gev  him  twinty  dollars." 

"Mr.  Timothy  Quin,  'wine-merchant'  and  ward  politi- 
cian, that  will  do  ;  step  one  side.  You  are  a  beautiful  wit- 
ness, as  you  are  a  worthy  citizen.  Take  care,  however,  that 
we  do  not  yet  punish  you.  Somehow  my  fingers  itch  to 
put  a  rope  around  your  neck." 

When  the  coroner  called  Mr.  George  Bailey,  every  eye  in 
the  two  parlors  was  turned  with  a  look  of  intense  curiosity 
on  the  grave  gentleman  who  quietly  took  his  place  as  a  wit- 
ness. There  was  that  indescribable  something  in  his  calm, 
introspective  air  which  told  of  patient  suffering  and  resolute 
self-control. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  259 

"  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  the  assistant  district  attorney,  "  what 
is  your  present  business  ?" 

"  Banker,  of  the  firm  of  Wilde,  Bailey  &  Co.,"  replied 
Bailey,  in  a  low,  grave,  sonorous  tone,  which  penetrated  to 
every  corner  of  the  three  rooms,  and  caused  Mrs.  Myron 
Finch,  sitting  beside  the  coffin  of  her  murdered  father,  to 
involuntarily  start  and  turn  her  head  to  see  the  man  who 
had  once  been  her  betrothed  husband,  and  whom  she  now 
passionately  but  vainly  loved. 

"  Is  it  correct,  the  story  told  by  Mr.  Grady,  that  you  were 
unjustly  imprisoned  for  ten  years  on  evidence  procured  by 
fraud  and  forgery  ?"  asked  the  attorney. 

"  Yes,  perfectly  correct — true  in  every  particular." 

"Does  that  look  like  your  handwriting,  or  like  what  it 
was  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  ago  ?" 

"  It  is  so  like  what  my  handwriting  was,  that  when  the 
forged  check  was  first  presented  to  me  I  frankly  owned 
that  the  writing  was  mine — a  confession  which  told  heavily 
against  me  on  my  trial." 

"Does  the  signature  look  like  the  writing  of  the  late 
Jacob  Van  Hess  ?" 

"  Exactly  like  it." 

"Your  fate  was  simply  terrible,"  said  the  sympathetic 
attorney — "  condemned  to  be  the  associate,  for  ten  long, 
weary  years,  of  brutal  criminals  !" 

"Worse  than  that  —  worse  than  that,  sir!"  replied  Bai- 
ley ;  "  the  petty,  galling  tyranny  and  unmitigated  brutality 
of  the  keepers  ;  the  indifference  of  the  higher  officers ;  the 
heartlessness  of  all  the  officials ;  the  severe  punishments  for 
slight  offences — nay,  for  no  other  offence  than  the  effort  to 
preserve  one's  manhood  and  self-respect — these  things,  sir, 
were  infinitely  worse  than  association  with  criminals.  The 
ignorant  keepers  seem  to  have  a  special  spite  against  the 
poor  convict  who  has  the  misfortune  to  be  better  educated 
than  themselves,  and  they  take  a  malicious  pleasure  in  tort- 
uring him.  But  excuse  me;  I  did  not  mean  to  say  so 
much ;"  and  Bailey  drew  his  hand  across  his  brow,  as  if 
to  wipe  out  the  memory  of  those  horrible  ten  years,  and 
heaved  a  sigh  which  sounded  like  a  sob. 


260  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Did  you  never  seek  to  punish  Finch  ?"  asked  the  coroner. 

"  Ah !  for  years  and  years  the  hope  of  revenge  kept  me 
alive  in  all  my  misery ;  and  during  my  first  year  of  free- 
dom I  was  sustained  by  the  burning  desire  to  wreak  a  ter- 
rible vengeance  on  the  man  who  had  done  me  such  dread- 
ful injury  without  the  least  provocation  on  my  part.  But 
— but  I  learned  that  revenge  was  a  mean  passion ;  that 
God  did  all  for  the  best;  that  in  his  own  good  time  he 
would  mete  out  to  Finch  the  proper  punishment  for  his 
crimes.  For  the  personal  injury  to  me  I  have  already  for- 
given him." 

"  Mr.  Bailey,"  asked  the  coroner,  "  did  you  see  all  the 
papers  taken  from  Finch  that  night  when  Quin  was  drug- 
ged ?  Did  Grady  show  them  to  you  ?  And,  to  the  best  of 
your  knowledge  and  belief,  is  this  one  of  them  ?" 

"  Mr.  Grady  showed  me  all  those  practice-forgery  papers, 
and  you  may  be  sure  that  I  examined  them  very  closely, 
and  to  the  best  of  my  belief  this  is  one  of  them." 

"  It  was  mainly  on  the  strength  of  a  check  like  this  that 
you  were  convicted  ?" 

"  Yes,  so  I  believe." 

Mr.  William  Wilde's  evidence  corroborated  that  of  Bai- 
ley. Susie  O'Neil,  the  policeman,  and  Quin  testified  to 
Finch's  appearance,  even  to  his  broken  nose. 

The  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  was  so  strong  that 
the  jury  immediately  brought  in  a  verdict  that  "  Jacob  Van 
Hess  had  been  murdered  in  his  library  on  the  evening  of 
the  twenty-first  of  November,  between  the  hours  of  nine 
and  ten  o'clock,  by  Myron  Finch,  late  his  partner  and  son- 
in-law,  and  that  the  mayor  of  the  city  be  requested  to  offer 
a  reward  of  five  hundred  dollars  for  his  apprehension." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  261 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  I  am  constant  as  the  Northern  star, 
Of  whose  true-fixed  and  resting  quality 
There  is  no  fellow  iii  the  firmament." — SHAKSPEARE. 

MYRON  FINCH,  tortured  with  abject  fear,  did  not  dare 
to  leave  his  dingy  room  in  his  obscure  lodging.  The  sec- 
ond morning  after  the  murder  he  requested  his  landlady  to 
lend  him  a  newspaper,  and,  trembling  in  every  joint,  he  read 
the  verdict  of  the  coroner's  jury.  The  very  headings  in 
the  morning  paper  were  appalling.  There  he  read  the  evi- 
dence of  Quin,  Grady,  and  Bailey,  and  the  offer  of  five  hun- 
dred dollars  reward  for  his  apprehension.  His  teeth  chat- 
tered, his  lips  were  drawn  back  until  his  very  gums  were 
exposed,  and  his  pale  eyes  almost  started  out  of  their  sock- 
ets. Up  to  this  time  he  had  had  a  faint  gleam  of  hope 
that  he  might  escape,  but  the  copy  of  the  practice-forgery 
papers  extinguished  even  that.  When  he  came  to  the  part 
descriptive  of  his  own  personal  appearance,  evidently  ob- 
tained from  Quin,  the  newspaper  dropped  from  his  nerve- 
less hand,  and  the  wretch  sunk  in  his  chair,  his  chin  fell  on 
his  breast,  and  his  arms  dropped  at  full  length  by  his  sides, 
utterly  overcome  by  the  force  of  his  fears.  Once  or  twice, 
as  if  fascinated,  he  essayed  to  read,  but  the  paper  fell  from 
his  fingers ;  finally,  by  a  great  effort  of  will,  he  read  the  fol- 
lowing description : 

"  Myron  Finch  is  a  man  about  thirty-five  years  old,  but, 
owing  to  habits  of  vice  and  dissipation,  looking  much  old- 
er; he  is  of  medium  height,  with  light  hair  and  light-blue 
eyes,  which  are  uneasy  and  furtive  in  their  expression ;  his 
face  is  puffy,  bloated,  and  discolored  with  drink ;  he  is  in- 
clined to  corpulency,  is  bald,  and  has  well-formed  hands  and 
feet,  lie  may  be  easily  recognized  by  his  broken  nose." 

"  D — n  that  Spaniard !  what  disguise  will  hide  this 
broken  nose?"  This  was  uttered  as  he  rose  to  darken  his 


262  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

room.  lie  wondered  if  Scroggs  had  noticed  his  nose.  He 
crept  into  bed  as  if  to  find  protection,  like  a  frightened 
child,  below  the  bedclothes.  Then  he  thought  of  the 
strychnine,  but  again  the  desire  to  cling  to  his  wretched 
life  overcame  the  longing  to  be  out  of  his  misery.  A  new 
thought  struck  him.  Actors,  he  said  to  himself,  can  change 
their  appearance  in  five  minutes  so  that  their  most  intimate 
friends  fail  to  recognize  them,  and  why  could  not  he  ? 
Help — he  must  have  help,  or  perish !  But  who  was  to  help 
him  ?  Another  thought  struck  him.  He  rapped  for  his 
landlady. 

"  Landlady,  be  kind  enough  to  bring  me  paper,  pen,  and 
ink ;"  and  when  they  were  brought  to  him  he  reflected  for 
a  moment,  and  said  in  a  low  tone  to  himself,  "  No,  no,  she 
would  never  betray  me ;  I  must  trust  her."  He  then  wrote 
the  following  note,  with  his  address : 

"  JENNY, — For  God's  sake  come  to  me !  I  am  sick  al- 
most to  death.  Yours  ever,  M." 

This  note  he  paid  the  landlady  to  post,  and  then  lay 
down  to  wait  for  night,  and  the  woman  he  had  so  basely 
abandoned  fifteen  years  ago. 

About  dusk  the  great-hearted  Jenny  made  her  way  fear- 
lessly through  the  back  slums  of  Mott  and  Mulberry  Streets 
to  the  miserable  lodging  of  the  murderer.  It  is  wonderful 
how  little  fear  for  ordinary  danger  is  felt  by  those  who 
have  suffered  the  agony  of  a  great  wrong.  One  look  from 
Jenny's  steady  eye  and  stern  face  could  abash  the  basest 
ruffian  who  prowled  about  the  whiskey-shops  of  the  disrepu- 
table neighborhood  through  which  she  was  now  passing. 
She  reached  Finch's  room,  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  voice 
hard  as  steel : 

"Myron  Finch,  what  do  you  want  with  me?  I  have 
come  at  your  call.  What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  I  knew  you  would  come — I  knew  you  would  come ! 
Jenny,  you  are  a  good  girl.  Read  this;  read  this." 

Jenny,  who  liad  remained  standing,  shook  her  head,  and 
told  him  that  she  had  read  it  all,  and  read  it  in  every  paper, 
with  all  the  variations. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  263 

"  Myron  Finch,"  she  said,  slowly  and  mournfully,  "  was 
it  not  enough  that  you  destroyed  my  happiness,  ruined 
poor  Mr.  Scroggs,  sent  an  innocent  man  to  prison,  com- 
mitted forgery,  ill-treated  your  wife  and  family,  robbed 
your  benefactor,  but  you  must,  in  addition  to  all  these 
crimes,  murder  this  very  benefactor  in  his  own  house? 
Myron  Finch,  you  are  a  very  wicked  man,  and  I  don't 
know  why  it  is  that  I  come  near  you."  Poor  Jenny,  with 
all  her  strength  of  character,  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  wept.  The  skeleton  of  her  old  love  was  tugging 
at  her  heart-strings. 

"Jenny,  Jenny,  as  God  is  my  judge,  I  did  not  mean  to 
kill  the  old  man !  He  had  those  papers  which  would  send 
me  to  State-prison  ;  and  in  the  struggle  to  obtain  them  I 
choked  him,  but  did  not  mean  to  kill  him.  He  was  old 
and  weak,  and  I  did  not  think  that  so  slight  a  pressure 
would  cause  death." 

"  Myron  Finch,"  replied  Jenny,  lifting  her  head  from  her 
hands,  "I  do  not  believe  one  word  you  say.  You  wanted 
the  practice-forgery  papers,  and  you  needed  money,  and  in 
taking  them  by  force  you  took  the  man's  life,  which,  in  the 
eye  of  the  law,  is  murder  in  the  first  degree." 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Finch,  "  that  the  newspapers  show  that 
neither  his  watch  nor  his  money  was  touched,  and  that  rob- 
bery was  therefore  not  the  intention  of  the  man  who — 
killed  Mr.  Van  Hess." 

This  fact,  which  Jenny  Edwards  remembered,  partly  cor- 
roborated the  statement  of  the  murderer  that  robbery  was 
not  his  object.  But  Finch  took  good  care  to  say  nothing 
of  the  nine  hundred  dollars  which  he  stole  from  Mr.  Van 
Hess,  and  had  hidden  at  this  moment  between  the  cloth  and 
the  lining  of  his  coat. 

"  It  may  be  as  you  say :  I  trust  it  is  so.  I  hope  that  you 
had  no  intention  of  committing  murder.  But — but,  Myron 
Finch,  why  did  you  send  for  me  ?  What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  You  read  that  graphic  description  of  my  personal  ap- 
pearance. You  know  that,  with  this  nose,  the  moment  that 
I  stepped  out  into  the  streets  I  would  be  arrested." 

"  Well,  what  can  I  do  ?"  asked  Jenny. 


264  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Actors,  Jenny,  can  make  all  kinds  of  disguises.  I  have 
seen  the  fair-haired,  bald-headed,  shaven  man,  like  me,  change 
himself  in  five  minutes  into  a  black-bearded  pirate.  I  want 
the  dyes;  I  want  the  paint;  I  want  the  material;  I  want  a 
pair  of  gold  spectacles ;  I  want  a  black  wig ;  I  want  putty 
and  glue ;  and  see  if  I  don't  make  a  fine  Roman  nose,  and 
a  learned  medical  doctor,  at  one  and  the  same  time ;"  and 
the  ruffian  actually  smiled,  for  the  first  time  since  the  mur- 
der, at  his  own  ingenuity.  The  smile  was  a  strange  com- 
pound of  fear,  craft,  and  hope,  and  caused  Jenny  Edwards 
to  shudder  with  a  sort  of  terror  which  was  indescribable. 

"  Myron  Finch,"  said  Jenny,  sadly,  "  the  talents  which 
God  gave  you,  you  have  used  all  your  life  to  accomplish 
wicked  ends ;  because  your  heart  is  as  bad  as  your  head  is 
good  —  nay,  much  worse ;  you  have  been  a  vile  sinner  all 
your  days.  Why  should  I  aid  you  to  escape,  when  perhaps 
you  will  use  your  freedom  to  destroy  another  victim  ?  And 
yet — and  yet  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  his  dying  in  his  sins, 
and  being  consigned  to  eternal  punishment !"  The  last  sen- 
tence was  spoken  more  to  herself  than  to  him. 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  certain  that  you  did  not  premedi- 
tate the  old  gentleman's  death;  but  how  can  I?  You 
have  never  scrupled  at  any  lie  that  would  serve  your  pur- 
pose." 

"  Never  mind,  never  mind,"  said  Finch,  in  a  desponding 
tone ;  "  I  sent  for  you  as  the  last  friend  I  had  in  the  world. 
I  know  I  treated  you  badly  in  times  gone  by — for  which, 
as  I  told  you  the  other  day,  I  am  truly  sorry  ;  but  I  see  you 
don't  forgive  me ;  you  bear  malice  against  me ;  so  let  me 
be  hanged !  Now  that  you  have  cast  me  off,  I  would  rather 
die  than  not,  and  so  end  my  misery.  Never  mind." 

This  piece  of  acting  was  not  without  its  effect  on  Jenny ; 
for  she  was  a  pious  woman,  and  loved  the  hideous  skeleton 
of  her  old  love.  She  would  have  done  almost  anything  to 
save  the  soul  of  her  former  lover  from  eternal  perdition. 
The  cold-blooded,  selfish  villain  lay  there  and  read  her 
thoughts,  and  knew  that  even  now  he  had  more  influence 
over  her  heart  than  any  other  man  living.  Jenny  reflected 
deeply.  At  length  she  raised  her  head  and  said,  "  Myron 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  265 

Finch,  my  own  heart  and  my  own  conscience  have  troubled 
me  for  many  years." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Finch. 

"  I  mean  that  though  our  early  relation  is  unknown  to 
all  the  world,  except  perhaps  three,  and  those  three  love  and 
respect  me,  I  would  like  to  hold  in  my  possession,  solely  for 
my  own  satisfaction,  a  marriage  certificate.  Now  hear  me. 
I  will  go  for  a  minister,  and  after  he  has  made  me  your 
wife — and  Jenny  winced  grievously  at  the  word  wife — I 
shall  be  in  duty  bound  to  aid  your  escape.  Do  you  agree  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course  I  agree !  I  am  a  free  man.  When 
my  disguise  is  complete  we  shall  travel  to  Europe  together, 
and  begin  a  new  life  in  London." 

"  Hold,  sir !"  said  Jenny,  in  a  tone  of  command :  "  were 
you  young  and  handsome  as  you  were  the  day  I  first  saw 
you,  and  had  you  all  the  wealth  of  the  world,  I  would  not 
live  with  you  one  minute  as  your  wife.  No,  no,"  and  Jen- 
ny shuddered  at  the  thought,  "  your  touch  would  be  con- 
tamination. You  evidently  mistake  me.  I  repeat  that  I 
desire  a  marriage  certificate,  that  is  all." 

The  villain  was  baffled.  He  had  calculated  on  Jenny's 
ready  wit,  her  practical  New  England  sense,  her  rare  energy 
of  character,  her  hard-earned  savings,  which  would  help  him 
to  establish  a  tavern  in  London,  and  her  superior  skill  as  a 
nurse,  which  would  make  her  so  useful  to  him  in  his  present 
state  of  health. 

"  Well,  well,  you  need  not  insult  me.  Bring  your  min- 
ister. You  can  have  the  certificate,  and  I  can  have  the 
disguise." 

"  Myron  Finch,"  said  Jenny,  sadly,  "  you  mistake  me  in 
more  ways  than  one.  Every  penny  I  possess  in  this  world 
I  would  give — ay,  I  would  give  this  right  hand — to  know 
that  you  had  repented,  and  turned  to  your  Saviour.  Would 
to  God  I  had  died  believing  in  your  truth  and  goodness !" 

"Jenny,  we  waste  time.     Go  for  the  minister." 

Jenny  Edwards  went  immediately  to  the  house  of  her 
own  minister,  with  whom  she  had  considerable  influence. 
Fortunately  she  found  him  at  home.  She  explained  her 
case  in  a  few  simple  and  direct  phrases,  without  revealing 


266  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

anything  in  regard  to  the  recent  crime  or  the  criminal. 
The  good  man  was  old,  infirm,  and  slightly  deaf.  Jenny 
was  aware  that  the  marriage  ceremony  could  be  hastily  per- 
formed without  arousing  suspicion ;  and  she  reflected,  as 
she  hurried  through  the  streets,  that  even  if  the  name 
should  attract  attention,  she  had  skill  enough  to  protect 
Finch  until  she  had  placed  him  in  safety  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  police.  The  minister  accompanied  Jenny  to  the  shop 
of  a  jeweller,  from  whom  she  purchased  a  plain  gold  ring,  and 
thence  to  the  dingy,  dimly-lighted  room  of  Myron  Finch. 

"  The  man  is  sick  abed,"  said  Jenny,  "  and  he  desires  to 
marry  me  before  he  dies.  I  will  call  the  landlady  and  her 
daughter  to  act  as  witnesses  to  the  ceremony." 

During  the  brief  ceremony  Finch  hid  his  face  as  best  he 
could,  by  turning  it  away  from  the  light,  and  seemed  ex- 
tremely anxious  to  have  it  over.  Neither  of  the  witnesses 
to  this  strange  wedding  expressed  the  least  surprise,  for 
doubtless  such  occurrences  are  only  too  common  among 
their  class.  They  evidently  looked  upon  the  affair  as  a 
death-bed  repentance. 

How  such  a  woman  as  Jenny  Edwards  could  reason  her- 
self into  the  belief  that  a  few  words  spoken  by  any  man 
could  make  her  "  an  honest  woman  " — her,  the  very  person- 
ification of  truth  and  integrity — passes  all  comprehension. 
We  can  only  explain  it  by  the  fact  that  the  same  early 
training  which  caused  her  to  place  implicit  faith  in  the 
most  rigid  precepts  of  Puritanism,  caused  her  to  believe 
that  marriage  was  a  very  sacred  thing ;  and  that  a  marriage 
now,  even  with  the  vilest  of  criminals,  was  necessary  to  her 
spiritual  rehabilitation.  Jenny  Edwards  had  never  lost  faith 
in  the  binding  force  of  the  Ten  Commandments;  and  the 
strictest  Pharisee  could  not  have  condemned  a  sin  in  other 
people  more  severely  than  she  condemned  herself. 

"  Now  I  must  fulfil  my  part  of  the  contract,"  she  said ; 
and,  with  a  business  tact  peculiar  to  her  race,  she  pulled  out 
of  her  pocket  a  small  memorandum-book  and  a  lead-pencil, 
and  proceeded  to  write  down  the  items  which  Finch  re- 
quired in  order  to  effect  his  escape.  The  minister  and  the 
witnesses,  in  the  mean  time,  had  retired  and  left  them  alone. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  267 

When  Finch  had  given  the  name  of  every  article  necessary 
to  his  complete  disguise,  he  said, 

"  Jenny,  my  dear,  I  have  great  confidence  in  your  tact 
and  ability,  and  I  know  that  I  can  thoroughly  trust  and 
rely  on  you.  I  have  not  slept  in  forty-eight  hours,  and  you 
have  so  relieved  me  by  your  presence  that  I  think  I  may 
now  sleep  in  safety." 

While  the  murderer  slept,  his  wife  entered  an  omnibus  and 
rode  up  town  as  far  as  Broome  Street,  and  entered  the  med- 
ical office  of  her  friend  and  admirer,  Washington  Scroggs, 
M.D.  She  found  the  little  man  alone,  nursing  one  limb 
above  the  other,  supporting  the  upper  limb  with  both  his 
hands,  as  was  his  usual  attitude  when  engaged  in  profound 
meditation  on  the  merits  of  his  wonderful  discovery. 

"  Jenny,  my  dear,  how  do  you  do  ?"  said  the  little  quack, 
shaking  her  cordially  by  the  hand  and  leading  her  to  a  seat 
near  the  fire,  for  the  evening  was  intensely  cold.  "  Jenny, 
my  dear,  I  hope  you  are  not  sick.  You  look  pale,  wearied, 
and  worried.  Can  I  not  do  something  for  you?  I  trust 
you  are  not  fretting  about  that  bad  man  who,  I  see,  has 
murdered  poor  old  Mr.  Van  Hess." 

Outside  his  sciences  and  his  "  panacea,"  the  quiet  little 
quack  could  talk  as  simple  Anglo-Saxon  as  any  one ;  and 
the  more  his  heart  was  moved,  as  in  the  present  instance, 
the  better  he  spoke. 

"  I  am  not  sick,  doctor ;  I  am  worried  a  little." 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  bring  my  vacuum  treatment  to  bear 
upon  Finch.  I  was  just  meditating,  when  you  arrived,  that 
all  crime,  like  all  disease,  is  in  the  blood,  and  that  both 
must  be  subjected  to  like  treatment.  We  must  change  the 
currents,  my  dear,  and  withdraw  the  superabundant  fluid 
from  the  unduly-developed  organ." 

Jenny,  perceiving  that  if  he  were  allowed  to  continue 
talking  about  disease  and  crime  and  their  cure,  Scroggs 
would  not  cease  till  morning,  and  as  time  to  her  was  very 
precious,  she  was  reluctantly  compelled  to  interrupt  him, 
by  saying,  in  her  quick,  abrupt  way, 

"  Doctor,  I  have  come  to  ask  you  a  great  favor.  Will 
you  do  it,  and  ask  no  questions  ?" 


263  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  most  willingly.  You  could  ask  noth- 
ing wrong ;  for  you  are  a  good  woman  and  a  pious.  My  be- 
lief in  you  is  unbounded  as  the  ocean.  What  is  the  favor  ?" 

"  Doctor  Scroggs,"  replied  Jenny,  "  time  presses.  Will 
you  purchase  a  few  articles  for  me  and  ask  no  questions  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear ;  explain  what  you  want." 

"  You  will  be  astonished,  but  I  have  your  promise.  The 
articles  I  desire  can  be  purchased  near  the  Bowery  Thea- 
tre." Jenny  pulled  out  her  memorandum-book  and  read : 
"  A  black  wig,  a  black  beard,  black  paint,  black  hair-dye, 
flesh-colored  paint,  a  pair  of  gold  spectacles,  a  small  piece 
of  putty,  a  piece  of  glue,  and  a  suit  of  black  clothes  for  a 
man  five  feet  seven  inches  and  rather  stout — say  weighing 
one  hundred  and  ninety  pounds ;  and  I  was  nearly  forget- 
ting a  broad-brimmed  black  felt  hat.  Here  is  a  hundred- 
dollar  bill,  which  will  cover  the  cost." 

"Jenny,  my  dear,  keep  your  money,  and  allow  an  old 
friend,  who  esteems  you  very  much,  to  make  you  a  present 
of  these  strange  articles." 

"  No,  not  for  the  world,  doctor — not  for  the  world  !" 

"  Well,  just  as  you  please ;  but  you  are  welcome  as  the 
flowers  of  May." 

"Dr.  Scroggs,  will  you  purchase  these  things  for  me  as 
quickly  as  you  can  ?  for  time,  I  repeat,  presses." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  certainly  ;  you  remain  here  and  take 
care  of  the  place  until  I  return." 

Jenny  Edwards  sat  gazing  into  the  fire,  wrapped  in  pro- 
found but  melancholy  thought.  She  reflected  on  the  wed- 
ding ceremony  just  completed,  and  compared  it  with  the 
one  her  young  imagination  had  painted  fifteen  years  ago, 
when  she  fancied  Myron  Finch  the  embodiment  of  all  that 
was  good  and  noble.  She  had  persuaded  herself  that  Finch 
had  not  intentionally  taken  the  life  of  Mr.  Van  Hess ;  but 
it  is  quite  probable  that  had  he  been  a  convicted  murderer, 
about  to  mount  the  scaffold  to  expiate  his  crime,  she  would 
have  married  him  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows.  She  was  fully 
resolved  at  all  hazards  to  save  his  life,  and,  if  possible,  his 
soul.  It  would  have  been  very  difficult  for  Jenny  herself, 
or  any  other  human  being,  to  analyze  her  motives.  They 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  269 

may  be  explained,  perhaps,  by  the  fact  that  Myron  Finch, 
was  her  first  and  only  love.  While  engaged  in  these  un- 
pleasant ruminations,  Dr.  Scroggs  returned  with  all  the  arti- 
cles which  Jenny  required. 

"  Dr.  Scroggs,"  said  Jenny, "  I  need  not  thank  you.  You 
know  the  gratitude  that  words  would  fail  to  express.  Doc- 
tor, I  have  another  favor  to  request,  and  I  am  almost 
ashamed  to  ask  it.  Will  you  give  me  the  key  of  your  of- 
fice for  this  night,  and  ask  no  questions?  I  will  hand  it 
back  to  you  in  the  morning." 

"  Jenny,  my  dear,"  said  the  little  quack,  looking  at  her 
sadly  and  affectionately  over  his  spectacles,  "  Jenny,  my 
dear,  this  is  a  strange  request ;  and  I  don't  know  whether 
I  should  grant  it  or  not ;  that  is,"  continued  he,  kindly,  "  I 
do  not  know  whether  or  not  it  would  be  for  your  own  good. 
But  you  are  a  good  girl  and  a  pious,  and  it  goes  hard  with 
me  to  refuse  you  anything.  Were  it  for  your  good,  my 
dear,  this  office  and  all  it  contains  I  would  freely  give  you." 
The  little  quack,  perceiving  an  expression  of  extreme  dis- 
appointment on  Jenny's  face,  and  fully  convinced  of  her 
purpose  to  save  Finch  at  all  hazards,  began  to  think  that, 
after  all,  it  might  be  the  wisest  thing  to  let  her  have  the 
use  of  the  office,  or  she  might  try  elsewhere  and  run  a 
greater  risk.  After  a  long  pause,  Scroggs  said,  "Jenny, 
my  dear,  you  can  have  the  key  until  morning.  Tell  me 
nothing  about  it.  I  must  know  nothing  about  it.  There  is 
the  key :  you  have  the  use  of  this  office  and  all  it  contains 
until  to-morrow  morning  at  eight  o'clock.  I  shall  go  over 
to  your  uncle's  and  stay  all  night.  Good-night,  my  dear." 

As  the  little  doctor  rose  to  depart,  Jenny  rose  too,  and 
caught  one  of  his  thin  white  hands  in  both  of  hers  and 
squeezed  it,  while  the  tears  of  gratitude  flowed  silently 
down  her  cheeks.  All  she  could  utter  was,  "  Dr.  Scroggs, 
may  God  bless  and  reward  you !" 

As  soon  as  the  little  quack  was  gone  Jenny  left  the  office, 
locked  the  door,  and  put  the  key  in  her  pocket ;  and,  with- 
out waiting  for  an  omnibus,  hurried  off  to  the  lodgings  of 
Myron  Finch.  She  had  placed  the  broad-brimmed  hat  un- 
der her  cloak. 


270  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

She  found  Finch  fast  asleep,  snoring  heavily  like  a  man 
troubled  with  bad  dreams  or  bad  digestion,  and,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  she  roused  him  out  of  his  uneasy  slum- 
ber, and  said, 

"  Myron  Finch,  I  give  you  just  five  minutes  to  dress  your- 
self while  I  step  into  the  other  room  and  pay  your  landlady 
whatever  you  may  owe  her."  Jenny  informed  that  portly 
hostess  that  she  and  her  husband  were  going  on  a  little  wed- 
ding trip  to  the  country,  particularly  for  the  good  of  his 
health. 

Finch,  dressed  in  his  suit  of  second-hand  clothes,  with  his 
broad-brimmed  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  and  leaning 
on  the  arm  of  his  wife,  passed  out  and  on  to  Broome  Street 
without  attracting  the  least  notice.  They  entered  the  office 
of  Washington  Scroggs,  M.D.  Jenny  pulled  down  the 
shades,  lighted  the  gas,  stirred  the  fire,  opened  the  bundle, 
and  displayed  to  Finch's  astonished  gaze  every  article,  even 
to  the  suit  of  new  black  clothes,  that  he  had  asked  for  not 
two  hours  before. 

"  Come,"  said  Jenny,  in  a  tone  somewhat  stern  and  com- 
manding, like  that  of  a  mother  giving  orders  to  a  bad,  re- 
fractory son — "  come,  draw  on  these  clothes  over  the  oth- 
ers ;  they  will  increase  your  size  and  help  to  disguise  you. 
Hurry !  I  have  no  time  to  lose,  for  I  must  be  back  before 
eleven  o'clock."  Finch  made  all  the  haste  he  was  capable 
of  making ;  he  adjusted  the  wig  and  the  beard ;  he  dyed 
his  eyelashes  and  eyebrows ;  he  converted  his  broken  nose 
into  a  Koman  nose;  and  he  so  placed  the  spectacles  as  to 
conceal  the  patch  and  the  paint.  His  disguise  was  abso- 
lutely perfect,  and  his  chance  of  escape  excellent,  thanks  to 
the  two  persons  whom  he  had  grossly  injured ;  but  at  the 
critical  moment  the  man's  perversity  was  his  worst  enemy. 

"Jenny,"  said  Finch,  with  what  he  meant  to  be  a  loving 
look,  but  what  was  in  reality  a  cunning  leer,  "Jenny,  I  al- 
ways feel  so  safe  when  you  are  near  me !  Now  that  you 
are  my  wife,  now  that  I  have  a  claim  on  you,  will  you  not 
come  away  with  me,  and  we  will  begin  the  world  anew  in 
some  other  country,  where  we  shall  both  be  unknown  ?" 

"  You  arc  already  endeavoring  to  break  the  contract 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  271 

Remember,  I  promised  to  aid  you  on  condition  that  after 
our  marriage  you  should  assert  no  claim  over  me.  Besides, 
were  I  weak  enough  to  consent,  and  even  if  we  prospered, 
you  would  again  abandon  me,  as  you  did  before,  the  mo- 
ment it  became  your  interest  to  do  so.  No,  no,  no,  Myron 
Finch,  I  could  never,  never  trust  you  I" 

Finch  felt  so  secure  in  the  presence  of  this  able  and 
quick-witted  woman,  he  felt  so  convinced  of  her  marvellous 
power,  that  the  craven  cowardice  which  for  the  previous 
forty -eight  hours  had  swallowed  up  every  other  emotion  of 
his  mind  had  fled,  and  left  him  once  more  free  to  plan  and 
scheme  for  his  future  earthly  happiness :  as  for  his  future 
spiritual  happiness,  he  had  no  faith  in  it. 

"  Jenny,"  replied  Finch,  "  you  judge  me  by  the  past.  I 
was  only  an  ill-conditioned  boy  when  I,  eaten  up  with  vani- 
ty and  ambition,  left  you — and — and — " 

"  Don't  repeat,  sir,  what  you  did !  don't  recall  the  past ! 
I  tell  you,  beware  !  if  you  revive  the  memory  of  those 
days  when  life  was  a  burden — when  minutes  seemed  hours, 
hours  weeks,  and  weeks  years,  expecting  you  to  come 
back  ;  listening,  watching,  hoping,  trusting,  doubting,  fear- 
ing, despairing ;  starting  at  every  step,  eagerly  catching  at 
every  sound.  Oh  !  oh  !  oh !  the  long,  bitter  agony  of  those 
days  and  nights,  when  I  prayed  for  death  and  it  came  not ! 
And,  Myron  Finch,  you  never  came  back  to  me  until,  stand- 
ing in  the  shadow  of  the  scaffold,  you  call  on  me  to  save 
your  life !"  Jenny  covered  her  face  with  both  her  hands, 
and  rocked  her  body  to  and  fro,  and  wept.  To  see  this 
strong  woman  weep  was  as  pitiful  as  to  see  a  strong  man 
weep. 

Finch  approached  her  and  said,  "Jenny,  darling,  can't 
you  forgive  me  ?  Can't  you  come  with  me  and  be  my 
wife  in  reality,  as  you  are  in  law  ?"  As  he  spoke  he  en- 
deavored to  take  her  hand;  but  Jenny  drew  back  as  though 
she  had  been  stung  by  an  adder. 

"  Hands  off,  sir !"  she  said,  rising  from  her  chair,  and 
looking  at  Finch  with  an  expression  of  wrath  hitherto  a 
stranger  to  her  face.  "  Touch  me  in  that  way  again,  and, 
as  God  is  my  judge,  I  shall  hand  you  over  to  the  police ! 


272  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

You  mistake  me.  For  the  sake  of  your  immortal  soul ;  to 
give  you  time  for  repentance — not  a  death-bed  repentance 
— I  have  consented  to  save  your  worthless  life.  But  know 
this,  Myron  Finch :  if  you  could  make  me  empress  of  the 
universe  on  condition  that  you  could  exercise  any  of  the 
rights  of  a  husband,  I  would  reject  you  with  scorn  and 
loathing.  You  but  waste  valuable  time.  It  grows  late,  and 
you  ought  by  this  time  to  have  been  on  your  journey  to 
Boston.  Here  is  the  key  of  this  door;  when  you  leave, 
put  it  under  the  door-mat  outside.  You  have  to  thank 
your  old  teacher,  whom  you  so  basely  supplanted,  for  buy- 
ing the  articles  for  your  disguise,  and  for  the  use  of  this 
office  for  your  security.  When  he  and  I  forgive  you,  can 
you  not  see  the  hand  of  God  working  for  your  salvation  ? 
Good-night;"  and  without  another  word  Jenny  left  him 
alone  in  the  office  of  the  mild  little  quack. 

"  She's  a  trump  !"  soliloquized  Finch,  "  she's  a  fortune ! 
What  quickness,  what  clearness  of  perception,  what  prompt- 
itude of  action  !  With  that  woman  as  my  wife — why,  she 
is  my  wife — I  could  make  two  fortunes,  a  dozen  fortunes, 
in  London !  Who  would  have  thought  that  the  little,  un- 
sophisticated, rosy-cheeked  Vermont  girl  would  have  grown 
into  such  a  splendid  woman  ?  What  a  jewel  I  flung  away  ! 
But  I'll  recover  this  pearl.  She  loves  me  still — I  see  it,  I 
know  it;  her  anger  proves  it — and  her  tears!  By  Jove, 
she  was  lovely  in  her  tears !  She  is  worth  a  ship-load  of 
namby  -  pamby  Grace  Van  Hesses !  And  Scroggs,  too — 
ha !  ha !  ha ! — the  poor  little  scientist !  To  think  that  he 
should  have  been  called  in  to  see  me  when  I  was — manu- 
facturing an  alibi:  and  this  is  his  room,  his  office?  Well, 
as  Jenny  says,  the  hand  of  God  seems  in  this ;  that  is,  if 
there  be  a  God,  which  I  very  much  doubt.  And  this — 
what's  this?"  Finch  was  curiously  inspecting  the  vacuum 
instrument,  the  very  "  panacea,"  as  Scroggs  termed  it,  for 
Finch's  own  moral  cure.  The  murderer  had  recovered  from 
his  fright.  Jen»y's  influence  had  given  him  a  kind  of  cour- 
age a  good  deal  like  that  imparted  by  a  free  indulgence  in 
ardent  spirits.  "  I'll  stay  till  morning,  and  make  one  more 
effort  to  induce  my  ivife  to  accompany  me  on  my  travels. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  273 

This  travelling  alone,  as  I  know  by  experience,  is  not  very 
pleasant ;  and  Jenny  would  relieve  the  monotony  wonder- 
fully, for  she  is  a  very  clever  woman.  Yes,  she  loves  me ; 
and  when  a  woman  loves — "  He  then  flung  himself  on 
the  lounge  and  was  soon  fast  asleep.  Ah,  Myron  Finch, 
perhaps  you  may  discover  to  your  cost  that  it  would  have 
been  much  wiser  for  you  to  have  taken  Jenny  Edwards's 
advice,  and  gone  straightway  to  the  renowned  city  of  Bos- 
ton. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  0  great  man-eater ! 

Whose  every  day  is  carnival,  not  yet  sated : 
Unheard  of  epicure  !" — BLAIR. 
"  0  damned  despair !  to  shun  the  living  light, 
And  plunge  the  guilty  soul  in  endless  night." — LUCRETIUS. 

JOHN  GRADY  felt  very  uneasy  about  his  niece.  He  had 
called  at  the  hotel  twice — once  in  the  afternoon,  and  again 
during  the  evening — and  on  both  occasions  had  been  in- 
formed that  she  had  left  about  four  o'clock,  and  had  not 
yet  returned.  Thinking  that  she  might  have  gone  over  to 
her  aunt's,  and  that  he  had  just  missed  her,  he  hurried  back 
to  his  own  house,  but  to  no  purpose.  He  advised  with 
"George  Bailey  as  to  the  course  he  ought  to  pursue,  for  he 
feared  that  Finch  had  found  means  to  communicate  with 
her. 

"  I  am  very  anxious,"  said  Mr.  Grady,  "  very  anxious 
about  my  niece,  ever  since  the  murder  of  Mr.  Van  Hess. 
Mr.  Bailey,  I  cannot  give  you  my  reasons,  for  that  would 
be  revealing  the  secrets  of  another." 

"  I  want  no  reasons  and  no  secrets.  You  are  welcome 
to  my  advice  and  aid  in  this  matter,  for  I  entertain  feelings 
of  respect  and  friendship  for  Miss  Edwards  for  her  own 
sake ;  and,  of  course,  anything  that  concerns  you  concerns 
me  also." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Grady,  "you  are  very  kind.  I 
may  tell  you,  however,  that  my  niece  and  that  villain  Finch 

18 


274  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

were  well  acquainted  in  Vermont,  and  I  am  afraid  tliat  he 
can  work  on  her  sympathies.  What  had  I  best  do  ?  I 
have  called  twice  at  her  employer's,  and  she  has  not  been 
there  since  four  o'clock." 

"  I  am  aware  of  the  interest  that  Miss  Edwards  takes  in 
Finch,"  said  Bailey,  "for  she  begged  me  not  to  use  the 
practice-forgery  papers  against  him." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  her  story  ?"  asked  Grady. 

"  No,  she  did  not ;  but  I  readily  surmised  it." 

"  Very  well ;  yon  see  the  necessity  of  preventing  the 
murderer  from  communicating  with  her.  I  am  very  anx- 
ious. Will  you  accompany  me  once  more  to  the  hotel  to 
see  if  she  has  yet  returned  ?" 

"With  pleasure,"  replied  Bailey. 

Arriving  at  the  hotel  about  ten  o'clock,  they  learned  that 
Miss  Edwards  was  still  absent.  Grady  then  suggested  the 
employment  of  a  detective,  to  which  Bailey  at  first  demur- 
red, but  finally  yielded,  agreeing  with  Grady  that  in  this 
way  they  had  the  best  chance  of  doing  Jenny  a  great  ser- 
vice. The  two  gentlemen  went  directly  to  the  office  of  a 
private  detective,  and  secured  his  services  for  the  next  twen- 
ty-four hours.  Grady  gave  him  instructions  to  watch  both 
the  south  and  east  doors  of  the  hotel,  to  ascertain  the  exact 
minute  when  she  returned;  and  if  she  should  leave,  to  note 
the  time  and  follow  her.  He  also  gave  the  detective  a  mi- 
nute description  of  her  personal  appearance,  and  requested- 
him  to  communicate  by  telegram  directed  to  the  house  of 
Wilde,  Bailey  &  Co.,  where  they  would  remain  until  they 
heard  from  him. 

Bailey  and  Grady  had  scarcely  left,  when  the  detective 
noticed  a  muffled  form  hastily  enter  the  hotel  by  the  south 
or  lady's  entrance.  The  clock  struck  eleven.  "  That's  her, 
I  fancy,"  muttered  the  detective,  disguised  like  a  rough 
country  farmer.  "  I'll  have  her  man  before  the  clock  strikes 
eleven  to-morrow  morning."  The  expert  in  human  crime 
and  misery  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Jenny's  face  as  she  en- 
tered the  hotel,  and  he  read  in  it  agitation  and  trouble  of 
no  ordinary  kind.  The  recent  murder,  the  names  Grady 
and  Bailey,  dropped  carelessly  in  conversation,  and  remem- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  275 

bering  that  these  two  names  were  most  prominent  at  the 
coroner's  inquest  —  the  evident  anxiety  about  the  woman, 
old  enough  to  be  employed  in  a  very  important  position — 
these  things  led  the  detective  to  suspect  that  he  might  be 
earning  not  only  his  fee  for  twenty-four  hours'  work,  but 
the  five  hundred  dollars  reward  offered  for  the  apprehension 
of  Myron  Finch. 

All  night  long  the  tireless  detective  walked  up  and  down, 
avoiding  observation,  but  never  once  taking  his  eyes  off 
either  entrance  to  the  hotel.  The  same  person,  he  took 
care,  never  saw  him  twice.  Sometimes  on  one  side  of  the 
street,  sometimes  on  the  other,  sometimes  leaning  against  a 
tree,  puffing  at  a  cigar,  he  appeared  the  most  innocent  and 
unconcerned  of  country  bumpkins. 

"  His  was  the  spying  eye 
Which,  spying  all,  seemed  not  to  spy." 

About  half-past  five  he  saw  the  same  lady  whom  he  had 
seen  the  night  before,  muffled  in  the  same  large  shawl, 
emerge  from  the  south  entrance,  and  pass  rapidly  up  Broad- 
way. "  That  'ere  lady,  it  occurs  to  me,  didn't  sleep  much 
last  night.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face  under  the  gas- 
light and  it  was  mighty  white,  I  tell  ye.  There's  somethin' 
in  the  wind."  The  detective  rolled  along  on  the  opposite 
side  of  Broadway,  with  the  uneven,  unsteady,  but  rapid  gait 
of  a  man  accustomed  to  walk  over  ploughed  fields.  Then 
for  amusement  he  would  imitate  the  walk  of  a  sailor  who 
imagined  that  the  sidewalk  was  the  deck  of  a  ship  rolling 
in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  But  his  little  cunning  gray  eye 
never  for  an  instant  lost  sight  of  the  lady  muffled  in  the 
large  shawl.  When  she  reached  Broome  Street  she  paused 
and.  looked  all  around  her.  At  this  moment  the  awkward 
countryman  found  it  convenient  to  stand  stock-still  behind 
a  lamp-post.  The  woman,  thinking  the  coast  clear,  walked 
rapidly  toward  the  east.  As  soon  as  she  was  out  of  Broad- 
way the  detective  ran  like  a  race-horse,  for  fear  she  might 
enter  one  of  the  many  alley-ways  that  abound  in  this  neigh- 
borhood, and  as  soon  as  he  turned  the  corner  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  her  ascend  the  steps  leading  to  the 


276  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

door  of  a  two-story  and  attic  brick  house,  on  the  front  wall 
of  which  gleamed  in  the  gas-light  the  flaring  sign,  in  largest 
of  block  letters,  of  "  WASHINGTON  SCROGGS,  M.D.,  WORLD- 
RENOWNED  INVENTOR  OF  THE  VACUUM  CURE."  "  Surely," 
thought  the  detective,  "  the  gentle  little  doctor  is  not  her 
man."  He  saw  the  lady  stoop  as  if  looking  for  something, 
but  apparently  unable  to  find  it,  she  arose  and  knocked  soft- 
ly on  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  a  man  with  dark  hair 
and  beard,  and  gold  spectacles  on  his  nose.  "  That  hair  and 
beard  never  growed  on  that  feller's  face,"  muttered  the  de- 
tective; "they  are  too  nice  and  too  black  by  half.  Why 
don't  these  chaps  disguise  theirselves  in  a  nat'ral  way  ? — 
Here,  boy,"  continued  the  detective,  "  Take  this  note  to 
John  Grady,  at  the  office  of  Wilde,  Bailey,  &  Co.,  and  here's 
a  quarter.  Bring  me  their  answer,  and  I'll  give  you  a  half- 
dollar  to  boot — d'ye  hear?  Off  with  you  like  lightning!" 
The  newsboy  ran  like  the  wind,  anxious  to  earn  his  seventy- 
five  cents  so  easily. 

****** 

"You  here  yet?"  were  the  words  with  which  Jenny  ac- 
costed Myron  Finch,  in  a  tone  of  voice  by  no  means  re- 
markable for  its  softness.  "  You  will  destroy  yourself. 
You  ought  to  have  been  a  couple  of  hundred  miles  out  of 
New  York  by  this  time." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know  it,"  replied  Finch,  in  a  low,  wheed- 
ling tone ;  "  but  I  could  not  leave  without  seeing  you  once 
more  before  we  are  parted  forever ;  and  besides,  I  feel  so 
safe  and  secure  when  you  are  near  me  that  I  have  no  fears.- 
O  Jenny !  Jenny  !  won't  you  believe  me  this  once  ?  Won't 
you  trust  me  ?  Won't  you  accompany  me  ?  You  can — I 
know  you  can — reform  me,  and  no  one  else  can.  You  can 
make  me  repent :  you  can  save  my  soul  and  bring  me  to 
Jesus.  0  Jenny,  my  wife !  God  has  joined  us  together ; 
let  no  man  put  us  asunder.  Won't  you  save  my  soul  from 
eternal  perdition  ?" 

The  lying  hypocrite  had  studied  out  this  appeal  during 
the  night ;  and  he  well  knew  that  it  would  weigh  more 
with  her  than  all  else  combined.  Nor  was  it  entirely  lost 
on  this  noble  woman.  She  had  to  rouse  up  all  her  moral 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  277 

feelings,  she  had  to  summon  all  her  forces  of  will  and  in- 
tellect, to  withstand  an  appeal  like  this  from  the  man  she 
had  once  idolized,  and  who,  while  living,  could  never  be  in- 
different to  her. 

"  Myron  Finch,  don't  tempt  me.  I  am,  God  knows,  but 
a  poor  weak  woman.  If  you  believe  not  Moses  and  the 
prophets,  if  you  believe  not  the  Gospels,  you  would  not  be- 
lieve though  one  rose  from  the  dead.  No,  no ;  if  God 
does  not  change  your  heart,  I  cannot.  If  I  have  done  you 
a  service,  show  your  gratitude  by  going  away  at  once,  for 
you  are  wasting  precious  time." 

Finch  was  commencing  another  appeal,  and  had  got  as 
far  as,  "  Jenny,  my  love,  I  fear  nothing  when  you  are  near 
me—" 

At  the  word  "  me  "  they  were  startled  by  a  loud  knock 
at  the  door  which  almost  frightened  the  life  out  of  Myron 
Finch,  and  caused  Jenny  Edwards  to  tremble  from  head  to 
foot, 

"  Open  the  door  immediately,  or  I  shall  hammer  it  in !" 
said  a  loud  voice  outside. 

Jenny  turned  off  the  gas,  and  turning  to  Finch  said,  "Drop 
from  that  back  window  to  the  yard,  scale  the  fence,  enter 
another  yard,  and  make  your  way  through  the  basement 
to  the  street,  while  these  men  are  searching  the  house. 
Hurry,  man,  or  you  are  lost !  Good  heavens !  why  do  you 
hesitate  ?" 

"  Open  the  door,  Miss  Edwards — open  it  immediately  !" 
roared  the  voice  outside. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I'm  looking  for  the  key.  Why  don't  you 
fly?  Good  gracious!  why  don't  you  fly?"  she  said  in  a 
whisper  to  Finch,  who  stood  irresolute  and  almost  paralyzed 
with  fear. 

The  knocking  at  the  door  became  fierce  and  threatening. 
Evidently  the  officers  were  endeavoring  to  burst  it  open. 

Jenny  took  hold  of  Finch  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and 
led  him  to  the  window,  which  she  opened. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "  climb  out  and  drop  into  the  yard.  I 
will  hold  the  police  at  bay  until  you  climb  the  fences  and 
reach  Grand  Street.  Hurry,  man !  hurry  for  your  life !" 


278  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

She  actually  assisted  him  out  of  the  window.  She  flung 
the  key  into  the  yard,  shut  down  the  window  and  fastened 
it.  She  had  scarcely  done  so,  when  the  front-door  fell  into 
the  hall  with  a  loud  crash ;  and  the  detective,  John  Grady, 
and  two  or  three  officers,  who  had  been  hastily  summoned, 
entered  the  parlors  which  Dr.  Scroggs  used  as  an  office,  and 
turned  their  eyes  in  every  direction  in  search  of  Myron 
Finch. 

Even  now,  Jenny,  with  indomitable  pluck  and  presence 
of  mind,  said,  "  Search,  search  away  !  Perhaps  he  is  un- 
der the  lounge  or  up  the  chimney.  Perhaps  he  is  up-stairs 
or  in  the  basement."  For  a  minute  the  officers  were  dis- 
tracted, and  one  of  them  actually  did  look  under  the  lounge, 
and  another  into  the  little  quack's  "receiver"  or  "  panacea." 
But  the  detective,  cooler  and  more  experienced,  said,  "  One 
of  you  hold  the  front-door,  another  the  basement-door,  and 
you,  Mr.  Grady,  remain  here  while  I  search  the  yard." 

Had  Finch  been  half  a  man,  he  had  ample  time  to  es- 
cape ;  but  fear,  disease,  and  flabby  flesh,  caused  by  his  in- 
temperate use  of  ardent  spirits,  had  prevented  his  scaling  a 
low  fence  which  an  ordinary  boy  of  ten  years  of  age  could 
have  accomplished  writh  ease.  He  had  made  two  or  three 
attempts,  and  after  his  last  effort  he  fell  heavily  to  the 
ground.  He  then  crawled  close  under  the  window  and  lay 
perfectly  still,  in  the  hope  that  the  officers,  not  finding  him 
in  the  house,  might  leave  without  searching  the  yard. 

The  detective  quietly  but  firmly  shoved  Jenny  Edwards 
away  from  the  window,  and  sprung  lightly  to  the  flags  be- 
neath. In  a  moment  his  quick  eye  caught  sight  of  Finch 
crouched  close  to  the  wall ;  and,  almost  in  a  twinkling,  he 
removed  his  false  hair  and  beard,  and  gave  him,  instead,  a 
pair  of  handcuffs.  Myron  Finch  was  a  prisoner  at  last, 
in  the  hands  of  that  law  whose  majesty  he  had  so  frequent- 
ly offended. 

AVhen  Jenny  Edwards  saw  him  arrested  and  handcuffed, 
she  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  wept — wept  as  if  her  very 
heart  would  break.  John  Grady  approached  her  with  the 
intention  of  consoling  and  soothing  her,  and  taking  her  to 
his  home  in  Willigpsibanrh. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  279 

"  Jenny,  my  child,"  said  the  tender-hearted  Grady,  "  come 
away  with  me.  No  one  here  knows  you  but  the  detective. 
We  can  keep  your  name  out  of  the  newspapers." 

"  I  care  nothing  for  the  newspapers.  Myron  Finch  is 
now  my  husband,  and  I  shall  stand  by  him  to  the  end." 

"  Your  husband  ?  Good  heavens,  Jenny,  you  are  mad — 
mad  as  a  March  hare  !  No,  no ;  surely  you  are  not  married 
to  that  wretched  murderer?" 

"Not  a  bit  mad,  uncle ;  I  married  him  last  night ;  and  in 
his  misery  I  shall  defend  him  with  my  last  dollar." 

"  You  are  insane,  woman !"  said  Grady,  with  asperity.  "  If 
this  villain  were  free  to-morrow,  he'd  cast  you  off  like  an 
old  shoe.  Jenny,  you  must  come  home  to  your  aunt." 

"  Uncle,  I  thank  you  for  all  your  kindness,  even  for  this 
last  act,  for  I  know  that  you  intended  it  for  my  good." 
And  the  poor  woman  wept  sadly  and  silently. 

Grady  gently  raised  her  from  the  floor,  placed  her  arm 
within  his,  and  led  her  out  of  the  office,  just  as  the  little 
quack  came  in  to  take  possession. 

In  the  mean  time  Myron  Finch  was  imprisoned  in  the 
Tombs,  to  await  his  trial  for  the  wilful  murder  of  Mr. 
Jacob  Van  Hess !  No  sooner  was  he  alone  than  he  began 
to  heap  curses  on  the  head  of  Jenny  Edwards  because  she 
had  refused  to  fly  with  him.  He  blamed  her  for  his  ar- 
rest, and  felt  fiercely  vindictive  toward  her.  Now  that  the 
worst  had  come  to  pass,  he  commenced  to  calculate  his 
chances  of  escape.  No  one  had  seen  him  choke  the  old 
gentleman  to  death ;  there  was  certainly  no  intention — no 
malice  aforethought — to  kill  him.  True,  there  was  a  strug- 
gle, and  in  this  struggle  Van  Hess  was  killed.  Finch  con- 
soled himself  with  the  thought  that  he  had  in  his  posses- 
sion nearly  one  thousand  dollars ;  and  if  the  worst  came  to 
the  worst,  he  had  also  the  poison  secreted  about  his  person. 
He  was  resolved  to  play  the  cheat  to  the  very  last,  and  cheat 
the  very  gallows. 

But  at  the  moment  that  Finch  was  making  these  calcula- 
tions, the  officers  of  the  law  were  searching  his  late  lodging- 
house  from  cellar  and  garret  to  yard  and  sink.  The  old 
clothes  in  which  Finch  had  returned  from  South  America 


280  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

were  discovered,  and  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat  they 
found  the  fatal  practice-forgery  papers.  The  chain  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  was  now  complete,  and  no  earthly  pow- 
er could  save  him  from  the  death  he  so  richly  deserved. 

Nor  was  this  all.  A  card  appeared  in  the  morning  pa- 
pers, signed  by  George  Bailey,  stating  that  he  (Bailey)  had 
loaned  Mr.  Jacob  Van  Hess  the  sum  of  one  thousand  dol- 
lars on  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  he  was  murdered, 
and  for  which  he  holds  Van  Hess's  promise  to  pay  in  sixty 
days.  "  Only  one  hundred  dollars  of  this  sum  can  be  ac- 
counted for ;  what  became  of  the  other  nine  hundred  ?" 

Finch  had  just  finished  reading  these  two  terrible  state- 
ments from  the  columns  of  a  morning  journal  furnished 
him  by  one  of  the  keepers,  when  the  detective  who  arrested 
him,  accompanied  by  several  officers,  entered  his  cell,  and 
began  a  thorough  search  of  his  clothing.  Between  the 
lining  and  the  cloth  of  his  coat  they  discovered  the  exact 
sum  of  nine  hundred  dollars,  all  in  twenty-dollar  bills,  the 
very  denomination  of  bill  in  which  the  paying-teller  of  the 
bank  had  cashed  George  Bailey's  check.  The  officers  failed 
to  find  the  poison.  When  again  left  alone,  all  his  former 
terrors  returned  with  tenfold  force.  Robbery  and  murder 
were  brought  home  to  him,  and  he  saw  no  possible  chance 
of  escape.  He  groaned,  he  wept,  he  cursed  his  fate ;  he 
cursed  Jenny  Edwards,  George  Bailey,  his  wife,  his  children, 
the  very  man  whom  he  had  foully  murdered  ;  he  cursed  God, 
although  he  did  not  believe  in  him.  He  threw  himself  on 
his  cot-bed,  and  rolled  his  body  and  tossed  his  limbs  in  the 
agony  of  despair.  His  imprecations  were  too  horrible  for 
repetition. 

The  keeper  turned  the  key  in  his  door  and  announced  a 
visitor;  and  the  words  had  hardly  been  spoken  when  Jenny 
Edwards  presented  herself  before  him. 

"  Blast  you,  you  hag  of !  Go  away  !  Are  you  come 

here  to  torment  me  ?  It  was  all  your  fault — you  were  too 
good  to  travel  in  my  company.  Begone  and  leave  me !  It 
would  have  been  better  for  me  had  I  never  sent  for  you. 
Go,  go  away  and  leave  me !  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !"  and  the  un- 
manly hound  wept,  groaned,  and  swore. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  281 

"Myron  Finch,"  said  Jenny,  with,  great  dignity,  "I  de- 
serve all  the  bad  language  you  can  pour  upon  my  head.  I 
knew  you  only  too  well ;  but  no  matter.  I  have  come  here 
to  help  you,  if  I  can.  All  my  savings  of  fifteen  years  will 
be  freely  expended  to  the  last  cent  to  save  your  life.  Try 
to  be  a  man ;  try  to  pluck  up  some  courage ;  turn  to  your 
God  and  Saviour.  What  is  this  world,  at  the  best,  but  a 
place  of  trial  and  suffering.  Heaven  knows  I  would  only 
be  too  happy  to  take  your  place  and  die  this  ignominious 
death  by  hanging,  if  in  so  doing  I  were  assured  that  my 
death  would  make  you  repent  of  your  sins,  and  cause  you 
to  return  to  your  Father  above,  who  is  eager  to  forgive  you." 

"  Stop  preaching,  I  say,  you  infernal  hag !  There  is  no 
God,  no  heaven,  no  hell,  no  hereafter !  I  don't  believe  in 
any  of  these  things,  invented  by  cunning  priests  to  frighten 
women  and  children." 

"  Hardened,  cruel  unbeliever !  must  I  then  leave  you,  and 
let  you  go  to  eternal  perdition  ?  Oh,  Myron  Finch,  it  is  a 
fearful  thing  to  die  in  your  sins !" 

"Look  here!  If  your  nice  conscience  and  your  sweet 
religion  had  permitted  you  to  accompany  me  last  evening, 
I  would  not  be  here  to-day.  Out  of  my  sight !  I  hate  you 
— I  hate  the  very  sight  of  you !  The  money  and  the  pa- 
pers have  been  found,  and  all  the  counsel  in  the  universe 
could  not  save  me.  I  am  doomed !  I  have  now  the  cour- 
age of  despair.  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  die  forty 
thousand  deaths  between  this  and  hanging-day  ?  To  live 
in  a  state  of  torture  for  six  months — worse,  far  worse,  than 
that  I  suffered  in  yon  low  lodging — is  the  refinement  of 
cruelty." 

As  the  very  diablery  of  his  nature  began  to  assert  itself, 
and  to  drown  his  recent  terrors,  his  voice  became  stronger 
and  his  language  more  cynical.  "  Jenny,  I  do  not  believe  I 
have  any  soul ;  I  do  not  believe  that  you  have  any ;  you 
and  I  are  mere  lumps  of  animated  clay,  which  perish  like 
the  dogs.  This  is  the  doctrine  which  the  philosophers 
teach."  The  fiend  well  knew  that  every  word  of  this  unbe- 
lief would  cut  Jenny  to  the  quick,  and  he  took  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  inflicting  exquisite  pain.  "Ah,  Jenny,  you  are 


282  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

a  good  woman,  eh?  Ha!  ha!  ha!"  (His  laugh  was  even 
more  horrible  than  his  oaths.)  Had  you  gone  with  me 
last  evening,  I  would  have  made  you  a  blessed  martyr ; 
wouldn't  I,  though  !  Oh,  if  I  could  but  torture  Bailey  and 
that  scoundrel  Grady  as  I  do  you,  I  would  die  happy  !  See 
here,  my  darling  pious  Jenny,  my  religious  better  half — ha ! 
ha !  ha ! — my  better  half — that's  good  !  This  is  my  pana- 
cea for  all  ills ;  this  converts  the  able  and  intellectual  Myron 
Finch — please  pardon  the  egotism,  for  you  are  aware  that  I 
have  seldom  exhibited  conceit  or  vanity — the  able  and  in- 
tellectual Myron  Finch  into  a  mere  lump  of  mother-earth ! 
and  before  Jenny  could  realize  what  he  meant,  he  had 
swallowed  the  poison.  "  Now,  observe  how  the  very  acme 
of  despair  has  given  me  the  courage  to  die." 

"  Good  heavens !"  exclaimed  Jenny,  "  what  has  the  man 
done?  Help!  Murder!  Help,  help!" 

Several  of  the  keepers  rushed  into  the  cell  to  ascertain 
the  cause  of  the  alarm. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Finch,  "you  may  retire.  I  have  only 
taken  a  panacea  to  cheat  the  gallows." 

"Go  !  go  instantly  for  a  physician  and  a  stomach-pump! 
Hurry!  hurry  !  he  may  yet  be  saved!"  continued  Jenny. 

"  It  is  useless.  This  poison  takes  human  life  in  five  min- 
utes ;  and  half  that  time,  I  fancy,  has  already  expired." 

Nevertheless,  the  keepers  ran  for  aid. 

Finch  had  reserved  his  worst  shot  for  the  last. 

"Jenny,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "we  were  married  last  night, 
were  we  not  ?  Now,  my  darling,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that, 
under  the  divorce  laws  of  New  York,  I  had  no  right  to 
marry,  and  that  had  you  gone  with  me  last  evening  you 
would  have  travelled  as  my —  But  he  never  finished  the 
horrid  word.  Terrible  convulsions  seized  him ;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  Myron  Finch  lay  a  rigid  corpse ! 

And  this  noble  Christian  woman,  on  whom  he  had  in- 
flicted such  wrong,  wept  for  the  miserable  sinner  cut  off  by 
his  own  hand,  with  all  his  sins  upon  his  head,  and  gave 
him,  what  he  so  little  deserved,  a  decent  burial  in  conse- 
crated ground.  Can  psychology  explain  the  mind  of  Jenny 
Edwards. 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  283 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 

"  Let  still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself ;  so  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

SEVERAL  months  have  rolled  away  since  the  events  re- 
corded in  the  last  chapter.  George  Bailey  and  Edith  Wilde 
were  engaged  to  be  married  in  the  spring.  He  was  still 
living  quietly  in  his  humble  room,  under  the  roof  of  his 
friend  John  Grady,  and  enjoying  to  its  fullest  extent  that 
period  of  ante-nuptial  delight,  when  the  hungry  heart  seems 
completely  satisfied,  and  uncertainty  and  jealousy  have  fled, 
never  more  to  come  back  to  torment  him.  Jenny  Edwards 
had  been  so  prostrated  by  the  ordeal  through  which  she 
had  gone,  in  her  futile  efforts  to  save  Myron  Finch,  that  she 
had  been  compelled  to  resign  her  situation  in  the  hotel,  and 
•was  now  living  a  quiet,  aimless  life  with  her  uncle  and 
aunt,  who  were  extremely  kind  to  her,  as  were  George  Bai- 
ley and  the  good  little  quack,  who  always  spent  his  Sun- 
days with  the  family.  The  large-hearted  John  Grady  had 
abandoned  open-air  lecturing  on  "  temperance,"  and  writ- 
ing for  the  Weekly  Reformer.  His  "  carnal  weapon  "  wield- 
ed no  larger  implement  of  destruction  than  a  steel-pen  in 
the  banking-house  of  Wilde,  Bailey,  &  Co.,  in  which  he  was 
now  employed  as  a  trusted  clerk.  Timothy  Quin  had 
been  shot  dead  in  a  bar-room  brawl  in  one  of  his  own 
stores;  and  it  was  discovered  after  his  death  that,  while  he 
had  been  managing  ward  politics,  his  bar-keepers  had  been 
growing  rich  at  his  expense ;  so  that  his  family,  after  the 
payment  of  all  debts,  were  reduced  to  a  state  of  absolute 
poverty. 

George  Bailey  employed  a  detective  to  discover  the  gen- 
erous burglar  Bill  Williams,  in  whom  he  had  found  much 
that  was  good  mixed  with  a  little  that  was  evil.  His  trou- 


284  GEORGE  BAILEY. 

bles  Lad  arisen  more  from  evil  companions  than  from  a 
wicked  disposition.  Bailey  employed  him  as  porter  in  his 
own  bank;  and  it  is  only  fair  to  say  that  in  all  the  city 
there  was  not  a  more  honest  servant  than  the  returned 
convict. 

One  day,  early  in  March,  a  lady  dressed  in  black  and 
heavily  veiled  called  on  Bailey  at  his  office.  What  was 
his  astonishment  to  behold  in  the  person  of  his  visitor  Mrs. 
Grace  Finch,  whose  faded  and  care-worn  face  too  plainly 
told  the  story  of  her  trials  and  sufferings. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  she  could  command  her 
nerves  sufficiently  to  announce  her  business.  At  length  she 
managed  to  say,  in  response  to  Bailey's  inquiring  glance, 

"  Mr.  Bailey,  I  could  not  bear  to  see  you  at  your  lodgings 
in  the  presence  of  those  people,  and  so  you  will  excuse  me 
for  calling  on  you  here." 

"No  apology  is  necessary.  I  think  you  said  that  you 
desired  to  see  me  on  business,  and  this  is  my  office."  The 
icy  coldness  of  Bailey's  words  and  manner  cut  Mrs.  Finch 
to  the  quick. 

"  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  Grace,  with  a  great  effort,  "  on  the 
day  when  my  poor  father  " — and  here  her  tears  began  to 
How  copiously — "  was  murdered,  you  loaned  him,  in  his  ex- 
tremity, one  thousand  dollars.  His  estate  has  been  settled, 
and  I  have  called  to  pay  this  debt.  Here  is  the  principal 
and  the  interest ;  and  allow  me  to  thank  you  for  the  kind- 
ness which  he  and  I  so  little  deserved  at  your  hands." 

"  Madam  " — and  Grace  Finch  noticed  the  freezing  tone 
— "  madam,  I  cannot  accept  this  money.  I  meant  it  as  a 
present  to  your  father  in  his  trouble,  and  as  a  small  return 
for  the  great  favors  which  he  showered  upon  me  up  to  the 
time  that — that — he  was  imposed  upon,  and  had  strong  rea- 
sons to  believe  me  a — a — forger." 

"  But  I  cannot  accept  this  money.  Oh,  Mr.  Bailey,  mis- 
fortune has  made  me  a  wiser  and,  I  hope,  a  better  woman. 
No,  no,  I  cannot  accept  this  money  from  you." 

"  If  you  cannot,"  replied  Bailey,  "  I  shall  hand  it  over  to 
some  charitable  society.  The  money  was  your  father's,  and 
now  is  yours.  I  do  not  need  it." 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  285 

George  Bailey,  thanks  to  the  influence  of  Edith  Wilde, 
had  long  ago  overcome  his  feelings  of  revenge ;  but  when 
he  saw  this  woman,  Grace  Finch — who,  not  satisfied  with 
abandoning  him  in  his  hour  of  utmost  need,  when  her  in- 
terposition might  have  saved  him — began  to  endeavor,  by 
means  of  anonymous  letters,  to  destroy  his  and  Edith's 
happiness,  an  emotion  of  extreme  dislike  arose  in  his  heart, 
which  caused  the  icy  coldness  of  manner  already  alluded 
to.  lie  therefore  wished  to  bring  the  unpleasant  interview 
to  an  end. 

"Mr.  Bailey,  I  must  say,"  said  Mrs.  Finch,  "that  you  have 
acted  most  nobly  toward  my  late  father  and  myself  since 
your  return  to  society." 

"  Nobly  ! — nobly  !  You  don't  know  how  wicked  and  vin- 
dictive I  was  when  I  left  my  prison — what  an  unforgiving 
and  relentless  heathen  I  was,  until  I  was  taught  that  ven- 
geance belonged  to  God." 

"  She  taught  you"  said  Grace  Finch,  in  a  tone  which  in- 
dicated that  all  her  misfortunes  had  not  yet  eradicated  her 
jealousy  of  Edith  Wilde. 

"Yes,  she  taught  me;"  and,  for  totally  different  reasons, 
neither  would  mention  Edith's  name.  "  She  did  more — 
she  saved  me  ;  she  upheld  me  when  I  was  sinking.  Oh, 
her  divine  love  has  far  more  than  compensated  me  for  my 
ten  years  of  unmitigated  misery  !" 

These  words  went  through  the  heart  of  Grace  Finch  like 
so  many  daggers  ;  for  it  was  the  misfortune  of  this  woman 
to  love  Bailey  with  a  passionate  ardor  utterly  unreasonable 
and  unjustifiable.  • 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes !"  said  Mrs.  Finch,  in  a  tone  of  great  de- 
spondency, "that  wicked  man  felled  you  with  a  single 
blow ;  but  you  recovered  more  than  all  you  had  lost. 
With  us  it  was  different.  Oh,  Mr.  Bailey,  what  my  father 
and  I  suffered  for  twelve  years  no  tongue  could  relate,  no 
pen  describe !" 

"  I  understand  it  well :  your  sufferings  were  much  worse 
than  mine." 

"  Oh,  had  we  but  trusted  you  !" 

"  Madam,"  replied  Bailey,  "  we  had  better  not  touch  on 


286  GEOKGE  BAILEY. 

that  subject."  This  was  spoken  in  a  tone  to  shut  the  door 
against  further  conversation  on  this  subject. 

"  Mr.  Bailey,"  continued  Grace,  in  spite  of  his  earnest  de- 
sire to  put  an  end  to  the  interview,  "  to  show  how  much  I 
respect  you  I  shall  retain  the  money  ;  and  please  tell  your 
— I  mean  Miss  Wilde — that  I  humbly  ask  her  forgiveness  ; 
she  knows  for  what.  Mr.  Bailey,  I  shall  try  to  be  a  better 
woman.  I  shall  live  to  train  my  children  more  wisely,  I 
hope,  than  I  was  trained."  By  some  strange  impulse  Grace 
Finch  rose  from  her  seat,  seized  Bailey's  hand,  and  pressed 
it  to  her  lips,  saying  "  God  bless  you,  George  Bailey,  and 
God  bless  Edith  Wilde,  ever  and  forever  !"  and,  before  Bai- 
ley had  time  to  recover  from  the  surprise  caused  by  the  act, 
Grace  Finch  was  gone. 

One  day  about  this  time,  when  Jenny  Edwards  had  fully 
recovered  from  the  nervous  fever  that  followed  the  suicide 
of  Myron  Finch,  she  was  sitting  alone  with  Washington 
Scroggs,  M.D.,  in  her  uncle's  little  parlor. 

"  Jenny,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  you  are  a  good  woman  and 
a  pious."  It  may  be  noted  that  the  good  little  quack  never 
said  she  was  handsome  or  pretty,  and  he  might  have  said 
both  with  truth ;  but,  with  rare  delicacy,  he  always  called 
her  "  a  good  woman  and  a  pious."  "Jenny,  my  dear,  now 
that  our  young  friend,  whose  capillary  circulation  was  so 
imperfect,  causing  an  unfortunate  afflux  of  blood  to  the  de- 
structive propensities,  is  defunct  and  decently  buried,  you 
might,  peradventure,  take  into  consideration  my  proposition 
to  become  my  spouse  and  heiress." 

Tbe  little  quack  always  thought  and  spoke  of  Finch  as  a 
mere  youth,  such  as  he  remembered  him  when  a  smooth, 
quiet,  crafty,  well-conducted  member  of  his  school  in  Ver- 
mont. 

"  Doctor,"  replied  Jenny,  "  you  know  that  I  am  one  of 
those  women  who,  having  loved  once,  can  never  love  again. 
I  loved  the  youth  of  whom  you  speak — oh,  with  such  a 
love  !  I  shall  think  of  him  as  we  knew  him  at  home  ;  and 
surely,  doctor,  he  was  not  wicked  then.  Don't  you  think 
it  was  this  wicked  city  that  ruined  him  ?  I  shall  always 
remember  him  as  the  bright,  intellectual  boy  whom  I  wor- 


GEORGE  BAILEY.  287 

shipped.  Ah  !  God  certainly  punished  me  for  my  idolatry. 
My  dear  kind  friend,  I  can  never,  never  love  again  !" 

"  "Well,  my  dear,  suppose  you  cannot.  Peradventure  it 
may  be  as  you  say ;  for  there  was  such  an  afflux  of  the  san- 
guineous fluid  to  the  amatory  region  of  the  brain  that  a 
permanent  congestion  occurred  which  has  never  been  re- 
moved. We  might,  even  yet,  apply  my  '  panacea,'  and  by 
withdrawing  the  air— by  letting  it  in  and  out — so  work  on 
the  capillaries  that  the  bump  of  amativeness  might  be  re- 
stored to  its  normal  condition.  You  respect  me ;  you  es- 
teem me — at  least,  so  you  have  said." 

"  Most  assuredly  I  do,  doctor." 

"  Very  well,  Jenny,  my  dear,  when  a  good  woman  and  a 
pious  esteems  and  respects  a  rich  old  man — rich,  thanks  to 
my  '  panacea ' — why  should  we  not  join  hands  in  holy  mat- 
rimony ?  I  have  no  living  relatives ;  and  even  if  you  do  not 
marry  me,  you  shall  inherit  all  my  money.  My  will  is  made 
out  in  your  favor.  So,  you  see,  you  cannot  be  charged  with 
marrying  an  old  man  for  his  money." 

The  little  quack  understood  Jenny  as  well  as  he  did  the 
force  of  simple  Saxon  English  ;  and  he  knew  that  her  pride 
would  never  allow  her  to  permit  people  to  say  that  she  mar- 
ried a  man  old  enough  to  be  her  father  for  the  sake  of  his 
•wealth. 

"  Doctor,  doctor,  if  you  were  sick  and  poor  I  would  wed 
you  much  faster.  I  really  think  I  could  marry  you  if  you 
were  utterly  helpless.  Doctor,  do  you  remember  the  night 
you  went  out  to  purchase  those  things,  well  knowing  for 
whose  escape  they  were  intended,  never  asking  a  single 
question  ?  and  do  you  remember  leaving  me  the  key  of  the 
office  until  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning  ?" 

"  I  do,  indeed,  my  dear ;  I  do  remember  that  night  right 
well ;  for  my  heart  bled  for  you,  seeing  you  in  such  sore 
distress." 

"  Doctor,  I  could  almost  have  loved  you  that  night,"  said 
Jenny,  with  a  bright  smile. 

"  Let  that  night  go,  my  dear,"  said  the  little  quack,  with 
a  smile  nearly  as  bright  as  her  own,  "  and  transfer  the  feel- 
ing to  this  night.  Do  you  know  that  I  always  thought  that 


288  GEORGE   BAILEY. 

I  was  entitled  to  a  reward  for  my  unquestioning  obedience 
that  night — the  reward  of  a — kiss ;"  and  the  little  man  arose 
•with  great  dignity  and  gravity  to  take  it;  but  Jenny  cruel- 
ly shoved  him  to  his  seat,  saying, 

"  Fie !  doctor,  for  shame ;  at  our  time  of  life !" 

"  Jenny,  my  dear,"  said  Dr.  Scroggs,  unabashed,  "  you  are 
a  good  woman  and  a  pious.  I  love  you  very  dearly,  as  I 
always  have.  My  'panacea'  and  you  have  always  divided 
my  affections  since  I  have  known  you." 

"  Come,  doctor,  tell  the  truth  now ;  which  of  us  do  you 
like  best — me  or  the  '  panacea  ?'  " 

"What  a  question  to  ask!  You  might  as  well  ask  a 
youth  which  he  loved  best,  his  sweetheart  or  his  mother, 
lie  loves  them  both,  but  in  different  ways." 

"  Very  well,  I  understand  you ;  I  am  your  mother,  and 
the  '  panacea '  is  your  sweetheart." 

"  And  I  am  an  old  boy,"  said  the  quack,  with  a  merry 
twinkle  in  his  blue  eye — "  why  don't  you  finish  the  sen- 
tence ?" 

"  Yes,  and  you  are  a  dear  old  boy ;  and  your  '  good  wo- 
man and  a  pious '  will  marry  you.  There  now,  will  that 
do  ?"  And  thus  ended  this  strange  wooing. 

On  the  second  day  of  May  there  were  two  weddings. 
George  Bailey  and  Edith  Wilde  were  married  in  the  same 
church  in  which  the  poor  ex-convict  had  worshipped  his 
"  guardian  angel "  from  afar ;  and  in  the  parlor  of  the  little 
house  in  Williamsburgh,  Washington  Scroggs,  M.D.,  was 
united  to  the  "good  woman  and  a  pious"  whom  he  had 
long  and  truly  loved.  The  latter  pair  spent  their  honey- 
moon among  the  friends  of  their  early  days  in  Vermont, 
and  the  former  pair  on  a  steamer  bound  for  Liverpool. 


THE    END. 


A     000  101  918     1 


HARPERS. 


